


Have Love, Will Travel

by squeemonster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 94,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squeemonster/pseuds/squeemonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is a reclusive writer with a childhood so tragic it's left him terrified to leave his home—until his overbearing brother, Gabriel, drags him out for a night on the town full of booze and strip clubs, and he encounters Dean Winchester, a mesmerizing and mysterious stripper with secrets of his own. Both men find themselves inexplicably drawn to each other, and soon Dean's private dances for Castiel become much more, as both men confess their troubles and find solace in each other's company. But neither can seem to find the courage to take their relationship further than the intimacy of the club's VIP Room—and just when Dean's own brother gives him the excuse he needs to finally admit his feelings, Dean discovers something that brings it all crumbling down. Will they find a way past their demons and their trust issues, and back to each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Written for [deancasbigbang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com). This story would not exist without the encouragement and guidance of zatnikatel. She was my alpha and my beta, and for this story she was the sun, the moon, and the stars. Thanks also to usarechan for her [absolutely gorgeous artwork](http://usarechan.livejournal.com/6357.html). It was a pleasure to work with you!
> 
> A link for the fanmix for this story can be found [here](http://squeemonster.livejournal.com/58469.html).

 

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> Hey Cas,
> 
> Haven't heard from you in too long, what the hell's going on with you?! I need at least the first three chapters from you asap, sugarcakes. The bossman has his panties in a twist, especially since you poo-pooed that book tour.
> 
> Don't leave me hanging!
> 
> Pam

 

> From: castiel.novak@gmail.com  
>  To: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com
> 
>  
> 
> Pamela,
> 
> I'm so sorry for my silence of late. I've been hesitant to admit that I've been having trouble with my writing. I believe I'm tired of writing this series. I have no desire to continue it at the moment, and no inspiration for where to go with it.
> 
> Until I begin to feel inspired again, I'm afraid to say I can't force myself to go on with it.
> 
> My apologies,
> 
> Castiel

 

 

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> WHAT??!! Cas, don't you do this to me. We've been friends too long for you to pull that stick-up-your-ass routine.
> 
> What the hell do you mean, you "can't force yourself to go on with it"? Buck up, soldier, you signed a five book contract deal and you've got two more to write. So stop whining, sit down on that cute little tush of yours and start writing something.
> 
> Pam

 

 

 

> From: castiel.novak@gmail.com  
>  To: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com
> 
>  
> 
> But Pam, I'm freaking out! I've wanted to come to you with this but I knew how upset you'd be. I sit down at my computer and nothing inspires me. I don't care about these characters anymore. Why should I care about the angels? They're cold and calculating, and have no empathy for humans or Earth at all. And if I can't make myself care, how can I expect the readers to care?
> 
> How big of a deal is it to get out of a contract? They'll sue me, I know. But I just don't know what else to do.
> 
> Cas

 

 

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> You just need to think about something else for a while. Freshen your mind up a bit. What about going out somewhere? I know, I know, you don't like leaving your apartment – but honey, I really think it'd do you some good. Just a walk through the park or something.
> 
> Or better yet, find yourself a cute hard bod to dive into for a long weekend. That'll give you some perspective. ;D
> 
> Pam

 

 

 

> From: castiel.novak@gmail.com  
>  To: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com
> 
>  
> 
> No. That wouldn't help.
> 
> I'll attempt to do more research tomorrow. But I can make no promises, at this point.
> 
> Again, I'm so sorry if this gets you in trouble with…dickhead. Sorry, I can't recall the name of your new supervisor at the moment.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Cas

 

 

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> His name is Zachariah, and yeah, he'll be pissed, but I can hold him off for a while longer. I think.
> 
> Just do your best. And Cas, stay in touch with me, okay? I worry about you.
> 
> And I miss gossiping with my friend.
> 
> Hugs,
> 
> Pam

 

 

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: sugarlips69@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> You need to stop schmoozing your clients and jet-setting the world long enough to check up on your brother, because he is about to go off the deep end.
> 
> If you care, that is.
> 
> Pamela Barnes

 

 

 

> From: sugarlips69@gmail.com  
>  To: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com
> 
> Okay, I'll bite. I got 3 questions:
> 
> —Who are you?  
>  —Which brother?  
>  —How did you get this email address?
> 
> Wait, 4 questions—what do you look like? Because you sound hot.
> 
> Gabriel Novak

 

 

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: sugarlips69@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> Wow, Cas wasn't kidding about you…
> 
> This is Pamela, Castiel's editor. The brother in question is, obviously, Castiel. I got your email from a message he sent out to a bunch of people a few months ago with some youtube link of kittens reenacting Star Wars. I saw your ridiculous email addy and asked him who you were.
> 
> Your brother has writer's block and he's having a meltdown. I think he needs to get out of that apartment and let loose for a night, but I'm sure you know how that argument went. I'd get on a plane to Wichita myself but I've got meetings out the wazoo for the next two weeks. I figured since you're a fancy international ad man, you could take some time off to go check up on him.
> 
> Pamela

 

> From: sugarlips69@gmail.com  
>  To: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com
> 
>  
> 
> Dammit, I knew something was up when the kid didn't call to bitch at me about that porn link I sent him last week.
> 
> It just so happens I'm in Chicago this week anyway, so I can hop on a plane tomorrow to check up on him. Thanks for the head's up.
> 
> Gabriel
> 
> PS—send me a picture of you so I can confirm you are who you say you are. Preferably in a schoolgirl uniform.

 

***************************

 

Writer's block has to be one of the most favored tortures in Hell, Castiel believes.

It's even worse than magic-erasering the grout between the floor tiles in the kitchen, which is what he's doing right now even though it's already spotless. And Castiel isn't really cleaning the grout at all, he's procrastinating. He knows this because he has spent the last three days procrastinating his way through the entire condo, not that it needs the attention. His bi-weekly Merry Maid and his _procrastinating_ have seen to that.

He sits back on his haunches, studies the floor with a critical eye. _It's done_ , he thinks regretfully, and there really is nothing left to clean. And that means he'll have to do what he should be doing, and his eyes drift up to focus on his computer, staring blackly at him through the half-open office door.

Time for another fruitless attempt at getting some deathless prose hammered out then, and Castiel pushes up, dumps the ravaged corpse of the magic eraser in the sink before padding into the office. The cursor he abandoned mid-sentence after running out of steam three paragraphs in to chapter two is blinking at him in a calculated, mocking way. A calculated, mocking way that reminds him he could use a shower after all that procrastinating and that after he showers, the bathroom will need a clean.

As he's standing under the hot spray of water, Castiel hears a knocking sound. _Air in the pipes_. Or, even better, a major plumbing repair that will play merry hell with his writing schedule for the next week. He grimaces up into the spray, because where there are major plumbing repairs, there are strangers walking around his home, invading his space and threatening the comfort of his routine.

He debates the pros and cons of dealing with plumbing repairs, the distraction from writing being a definite plus, for the two minutes it takes to realize the knocking sound is someone pounding on his front door. And not anyone he's expecting to visit, because today isn't groceries day.

Not anyone he _wants_ to visit either, he discovers after he wraps a towel around his waist and drips his way to the front door.

"Hey, little bro! What's hangin'? Other than your junk under that towel."

Castiel knows he's slack-jawed as he stares at his brother standing in the doorway, and his response is flat. "What do you want?"

Gabriel presses a palm to his chest, all wide eyes and mock hurt.

"Pardon my rudeness," Castiel adds, just as baleful as he was before. "But what are you doing here?"

His brother slides adroitly past him and into the apartment, eyes darting everywhere at once. "Yeah, I know we're supposed to notify you in triplicate before dropping by, on pain of death, but I had some business in Chicago this week…" He spins around, eyes lively. "And you're in luck, I have a long weekend and no plans, so I hopped a shuttle to come see my little brother. You're taking me out for my birthday."

It takes Castiel longer than it really should to rustle up the date from his memory. "Your birthday isn't for another two months."

"Eh, that's just a technicality. Who's to say when I might be up this way again?" Gabriel's face sobers for a moment as he watches Castiel fidget. "Cas, I tried calling you last night but you let it go to voicemail. And I emailed you this morning, but zip. So, I did try to give you some notice."

Castiel bites his lip as he contemplates Gabriel's words, finally sighing. "Alright. But I'll have to get dressed."

Gabriel smirks. "Well, duh. Not that the towel doesn't suit you." He saunters through the foyer ahead of Castiel, nods as he takes it all in. "I like what you've done with the place. Architect was worth the money then."

"Yes, like I said he would be," Castiel retorts, and as he makes his way back into the bedroom to pull on his jeans and a clean t-shirt, a sense of smug satisfaction swells up inside him on the memory of his brother's unimpressed eye-roll the first time they'd come up here and surveyed the poorly laid out shambles the place was.

He thinks on it now, smaller rooms knocked into one large, airy living space, with bedrooms and bathrooms off the main living room, light flooding in and shining gold on wooden floors. Peace, a _sanctuary_ , even if his brothers and cousins all lectured that he'd be better off buying in the suburbs, away from the bustle of the city, a place where he'd be happy and more comfortable hiding away. But no: the high ground for him, although most of his family questioned his sanity. High enough to see everything for miles around: his hilltop fort.

Gabriel is in the den leafing through a book when Castiel finds him again.

"Photography?" he inquires as he lifts it up. "Thinking of taking up a new hobby?"

Castiel narrows his eyes and juts his chin out in defiance. "Maybe. Someday. Why didn't you use your key to get in? There's a reason I gave it to you, you know."

Gabriel snorts. "Riiiight. For all I know, you could have taken your creeper recluse status to the next level and started hoarding guns or knives or something. It'd be just my luck barging in on you while you're cleaning your rifles."

Sighing, Castiel takes a seat on his couch. "I'm not a creeper recluse, and I don't hoard, especially not weapons."

Gabriel plops down on a chair, stacking his feet on the coffee table in front of him. He fixes Castiel with a needle-sharp, analytical look. "So when's the last time you went outside?"

Castiel clenches his jaw and stares at the floor. "Six months ago."

There is a stifled expletive at that, but his brother recovers well enough "You still wearing that ugly trench coat whenever you _do_ leave the house?"

"…Yes."

"Then you're a creeper recluse, Cas."

Castiel can feel his brother's eyes boring into him, but when he glances up at Gabriel what he finds in his face is fondness, not anger or disappointment. Castiel relaxes a tiny bit, and even as he does it he knows it's a mistake, because Gabriel can scent weakness like a great white can sense a drop of blood in the Atlantic.

And sure enough, he goes in for the kill.

"So, I was thinking maybe a night on the town. A bar, a club. Fetch your creeper coat."

Castiel tenses a great deal at that, but he has been on this merry-go-round with his brother often enough to know that the woobie act is a useless defense. "I have work to do," he says firmly. "Right now. I'm working, in fact. And you disturbed me."

Gabriel's eyes go beady and take a long, slow sweep around the room. "Place looks awfully clean, kiddo."

Keeping his eyes as steady as he can even if his gut is starting to churn, Castiel adds, "Working to a deadline."

Gabriel leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Cas, chill out. I'm not going to force you to do anything, and I'm not even going to try to guilt you into anything. Much."

 _I don't want to_.

Castiel rubs his palm across his forehead, glancing quickly around the room. "What did you have in mind? Gabriel, you _know_ how I feel about going out without a planned—"

"You're right, Cas, I do know. Which is why I've got it all planned out." Gabriel reaches into his coat, pulls folded papers from a pocket. "See here? This is an itinerary of where I'd like to go. I've got a reservation at Pauli's Steakhouse on North 5th Street at 7:30. Here's a layout of the restaurant…" He unfolds a sketched diagram. "…That I bribed the hostess to make."

Gabriel pauses his speech for a moment to stare happily into space. "Hmmm, the things I had to promise her to get her to draw this for me…"

He continues to contemplate for several more seconds, until Castiel clears his throat.

"Right, so anywho, I got Tammi-with-an-i to reserve us a table in the corner with a clear view of the entire main floor of the restaurant and the exit. Also, here's a menu so you can go ahead and decide what you want to eat."

Gabriel stops, smiles brightly because he's a man with a plan, and it's a _bad_ plan, a plan that has Castiel's heart beating faster and his mouth going dry. "How will we be getting there?" he manages, and he knows he sounds a little desperate. "I do have my car but I haven't mapped it out or checked on traffic congestion around that area, or even looked at the weather forecast today, and—"

"Got that one covered too, Cas," his brother jumps in smartly, but then his voice goes gentle. "I've got a Mercedes picking us up twenty minutes before the reservation. And before you ask, yes, I checked their safety record and it is the safest limo service in the city. I also got them to draw me a map of the route the driver will take."

Gabriel pulls a city map out of his coat pocket, and Castiel whips out his hand purely by reflex, grabs the map and unfolds it. He pores over the route his brother has plotted out with a Sharpie. The restaurant is less than five miles from his condo, which is a relief.

He swallows. "I…suppose I could try going with you. That only gives me about an hour to prepare, though."

He stands up to make his way into his bedroom, but turns when he hears his brother clear his throat.

"Uh, Cas. That's not the only place I want to go tonight."

Castiel stares at him for a moment before sitting back down. "Okay. Where else did you want to go?"

"See, there's this new strip club in town, and—"

His nerves cast out by his annoyance, Castiel snaps, "Strip club?!"

"Oh boy, yeah, and wait till you hear what I had to do to get _that_ place  
mapped out for me," Gabriel cackles.

 

***************************

 

An hour and a half later finds them both at the steakhouse Gabriel chose. It's a very opulent and swanky place on the other side of downtown from Castiel's condo. It's also packed, noisy with groups of people laughing boisterously and busy with waiters and waitresses skipping by with large trays of food. It's a hive of activity, and if Castiel didn't have a map of the layout of the building in his pocket and a full view of the exit, he knows he'd probably be in the beginnings of a panic attack by now. He's damned thankful he had the presence of mind to take a Xanax before he left his place.

There's no doubt the food smells good, so good Castiel thinks he might even be able to eat despite his nerves. Gabriel orders a pint of Guinness and rare steak, scoffing at Castiel's request of a cheeseburger and diet Coke.

"At least drink a pint with me, it'll help loosen you up."

Castiel knows this is one argument he will not win, so he acquiesces and orders a Guinness as well, warning darkly, "If I end up passing out from the combination of my meds and alcohol, you are forbidden from taking any pictures of me in compromising positions."

Gabriel smirks. "Oh, come on, Cas, that was _one_ time! And you have to admit, you did look pretty in that lipstick and bonnet."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Yes, but the lipstick was the wrong color for my skin tone. It was completely embarrassing."

Gabriel snorts, but remains silent for several minutes, and Castiel spends the time scanning the room, willing his medication to start taking effect.

Several sips later, Gabriel clears his throat. "So. Still popping the pills?"

He broaches it cautiously enough, but Castiel knows he bristles and sounds too defensive. "I'm not pill-popping. I'm not taking them regularly at all, in fact. I work from home, I don't need to go out in public very often. So I don't have to take them very often."

Gabriel nods slowly. "Okay."

"And they're effective," Castiel continues, too fast, because he wonders if his brother will ever get it, the knife-edge feeling of being on the verge of screaming panic, the weariness of it.

"How's work?" Gabriel detours, and Castiel thinks that maybe he does get it.

The brief distraction of their drinks arriving is welcome, and Castiel reaches for his glass as greedily as his brother does, gulps down a mouthful. He glances his way from the corner of his eye, then keeps his gaze steady on the tablecloth, fingers playing nervously with a napkin. "Work is…fine, I suppose."

"Bullshit."

Castiel's head quickly snaps up, his stare focusing on Gabriel's smirk. "What do you mean? I don't understand—"

"You've been trying to write for over a month and it's been a no-go."

"How do you even know that?" Castiel looks around the room suspiciously, wondering if this is some practical joke, if there are cameras somewhere watching him, waiting to pull a fast one over on him.

Gabriel lowers his voice to a calm and even tone. "Steady now, little brother, it's not magic or some big conspiracy. Your editor emailed me yesterday."

That makes no sense, and Castiel gapes. "Pamela? How? Why? How?"

"Those are three very good questions," Gabriel smiles, voice back to its normal, teasing tone. "First off, there's this amazing little invention called the internet…by the way, stop me if you've heard this one—"

"Gabe, if you don't get serious—"

"Alright, alright, take another chill pill. She got my email address from some mass email you sent out weeks ago about space-age pussies—"

"Um, that sounds like _nothing_ I would do—"

"…Okay, maybe it was about kittens playing at Star Wars, who the fuck clicks on those links people send in emails anyways?"

" _I_ do, Gabriel, that's why I got so pissed at you when you sent me that porn link, it took me _weeks_ to get rid of that virus."

Gabriel gets a dreamy look on his face and sighs. "Yeah, that was some truly filthy porn. I'm not surprised it was so dirty you got a virus, although I am shocked to discover that STDs are strong enough now to pass on through the intertubes. Just goes to show that antibiotics are building a virus army to kill us all—"

"Gabe!" Castiel jumps in. "Focus."

Gabriel fakes a wince and smirks. "Huh? Oh, right. Anyway, your editor sent me an email yesterday saying I should go check in on you. Or actually, she demanded it, in a really hot way. Speaking of, what does she look like? She's hot, isn't she? I bet she's got the librarian vibe going for her…glasses, hair tied back in a bun, tight skirt and button-down shirt, stiletto heels and an attitude. Am I right?"

Sighing, Castiel reaches for his beer and gulps down half of it. _That's better_. "Pamela is…she's not like that. She's very appealing, really. More into new age things. The healing power of crystals. Pyramids. I've never really understood how she ended up in the business world, even something as creative as this. She practices meditation, yoga, goes on spiritual retreats…she's a very giving soul, but also will not tolerate anyone's bullshit. I've yet to meet anyone who could best her, physically or mentally. Or in the consumption of alcohol."

Gabriel chuckles. "Sounds like my kind of gal."

Castiel scoffs, "She'd eat you alive."

"Oh, I'm counting on it."

That's a mental image Castiel can do without, so he steers the conversation back to the point. "So, what? You came here because Pam said I might be going off the deep end?" He knows he sounds petulant and hurt, but he can't help it. It's humiliating to know that his friends and family are now going behind his back, discussing what's best for him.

Gabriel leans back in his chair. "No, little bro," he starts, but as Castiel rearranges his features into skepticism, Gabriel concedes, "Well, yeah, kind of, but I had been thinking of coming to see you on this trip anyways. I really might not be able to make it back before my birthday, and I've missed you. Pam's email just gave me the kick in the ass I needed to get myself here."

Even if he's suspicious, it warms Castiel's heart to hear his brother say he missed him. Sometimes it's easy to forget how nice it is to interact with people face to face instead of virtually or on the phone, and so he can't help softening. "Thanks, Gabriel. I've missed you, as well."

"Besides, I've always wanted to see how you'd react in a strip club."

The man can never let a sincere moment pass without provocation.

 

***************************

 

The strip club is only a ten-minute stroll from the restaurant, but Gabriel doesn't force an impromptu late-night walk on Castiel. He whistles shrilly for the car, bundles Castiel into it, and two minutes after lurching out of the restaurant they're on the doorstep of the club. It doesn't look like much from the outside, just a simple sign that says "Angels and Demons" above the door, and a burly bouncer standing guard at the entrance.

The man waves them through once Gabriel tucks a folded bill into his jacket pocket, and Gabriel pushes Castiel ahead of him down a long, darkened hallway covered from floor to ceiling in twinkling lights.

"It's like walking through space, the final frontier," Gabriel slurs. "We shall boldly go."

Castiel can feel his heart rate quicken slightly at being in such a dark, unfamiliar place, and he says a silent thank you to Gabriel for pressuring him into drinking alcohol. The combination of that and the Xanax has dampened his propensity to panic quite considerably but even so, despite the stars twinkling above them, he's grateful when they come to the end of the hallway, which opens up onto a very large room with a stage on the opposite side.

Castiel takes a quick survey of the room, to get his bearings and locate the emergency exits. On the right side of the club is a large bar that runs the length of that wall, making it big enough to have two separate sections, one titled "Heaven" and one titled "Hell." It's decorated in the same theme as the rest of the club seems to be, the Heaven side filled with whites and silvers and blues, soft pillows made to resemble clouds thrown around the booths and sectioned-off areas, and the Hell side filled with dark splashes of color, reds and purples and blacks, paintings of fire and naked bodies writhing and wrapped around each other in various stages of sin.

It's a quite ingenious theme, Castiel muses, one the club has taken even further, to the waiters and waitresses walking around, some dressed as angels complete with halos hanging crookedly over their heads and fluffy strap-on wings, and others dressed as devils with little horns and blood red lips. Glancing around, Castiel notices both men and women in various stages of undress dancing on the small, elevated platforms around the room.

When he looks to Gabriel with his eyebrows raised, his brother winks.

"Do I take care of my little bro or what? This is one of those equal opportunity strip clubs. Boys and girls, whatever floats your boat. I even reserved us a special VIP table, right in front of the stage."

He grabs Castiel's coat sleeve and drags him over to their table. Castiel is horrified at the thought of sitting that close to the stage, where everyone can see them and anything could happen, until Gabriel leans over to shout at him above the music.

"Don't worry, Cas. I told them that we didn't want any of the dancers to come up to us. We'll be fine, nothing's going to happen that you don't know about beforehand, okay?"

Castiel takes a deep breath and nods at his brother, reminding himself that no matter how annoying and infuriating Gabriel can be, he'd never deliberately do anything upsetting. Before he can begin to scan the room to double check on the escape routes, a waitress has approached to take their drink orders.

"Two beers and a bottle of house white," Gabriel raps out smartly before Castiel can refuse, and then he leans in. "This is just insurance to make sure you stay relaxed," he reassures above the noise of the music and the other patrons.

"At this point, if you're not careful relaxed may become comatose," Castiel shouts back. "I'm not supposed to drink alcohol with my meds, and I never have before. I have no idea how much of an effect it'll have on me."

Gabriel waves a hand. "Don't worry. If you pass out, I'll just have one of these handsome scantily-clad men scoop you up and carry you to the car." He grins and waggles his eyebrows, and Castiel rolls his eyes and turns his attention to the stage, as the lights are dimmed and the spotlight is turned on.

The first performer is a woman called Casey, and she takes the stage dressed in motorcycle gear – spiked-heel boots, dark leather pants, and a tight leather jacket. She quickly loses the jacket, revealing a barely-there ruby-red tank top underneath. She moves slowly across the stage, sliding her hands up and down her body, her movements hypnotizing, long brunette hair falling around her bare shoulders in silky waves. She moves like she knows she has the audience so entranced that she needn't do anything flashy to garner their attention.

Castiel spares a glance at Gabriel and huffs in laughter. His brother's gaze on the dancer is so intense Castiel wouldn't be surprised to see laser beams shooting out of his eyes. As it is, Castiel briefly wonders if he should order a bib to protect his clothes from all the drooling.

Once Casey's routine is finished, Castiel excuses himself to go to the bathroom, his bladder not being used to all the alcohol he's drinking, nor to the nerves he's been feeling. He makes his way to the bathroom closest to his table, along a hallway next to the bar. As he approaches the door, he sees a man in green medical scrubs leaning on the wall outside of it, talking on a cell phone. His eyes are closed, and the fingers of one hand are pinching the bridge of his nose as he talks into the phone.

"I know, I know," the man says. "I just miss you is all."

His voice cracks as he says those last words, and Castiel feels as if he's eavesdropping on a very private moment. He's unsure of what to do because he doesn't want to interrupt, but it seems as if the man is standing in line for the bathroom, and Castiel doesn't want to cut in. He stands there quietly, looking around and trying to be as unobtrusive as possible as the man finishes up his phone call, eyes still closed.

"Okay, yeah, I guess I'll see you next weekend then, hopefully," the man sighs. "Yeah, I love you too, shithead. Bye."

Castiel watches the man smile faintly as he says his goodbye. When he ends the call, he scrubs a hand across his face, and Castiel hears him mumble, "Fuck."

Castiel stands awkwardly for another couple of seconds before clearing his throat. The man's eyes snap open as he notices Castiel for the first time, and Castiel smiles nervously.

"Um, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you, but I wasn't sure if you were in line for the bathroom…" He gestures at the door, feeling like the most uncouth human that's ever existed, especially once he gets a glimpse at the man's eyes. They are a perfect shade of green, with flecks of gold near the pupils, and eyelashes that don't seem to end.

The man blushes faintly and smiles, pushing away from the wall. "All yours, dude," he drawls. "Have a good night," he calls over his shoulder as he walks away.

Castiel watches the man's retreating form until he becomes lost in the crowd. "Yes, you, too," he mumbles to no one. _Great, Cas_ , he berates himself. _The most beautiful man you've ever seen and all you can do is ask if he's in line for the bathroom. What great progress you've made_.

Once Castiel has returned to his seat at their table, Gabriel leans over. "Hey, funny story, turns out Casey is that dancer's real name. Also, her boyfriend is the big guy dressed as a gladiator over there, and he doesn't take too kindly to guys asking his girlfriend out. Go figure!"

Castiel snorts, taking a sip from his dwindling pint. "I would say that I'm shocked, but I doubt anything can shock me anymore about this night."

Which is exactly when the lights dim again and the next dancer is announced.

"Everyone, put your hands together and get those dollar bills at the ready for Doctor Sexy himself, Tyler Paaaaaaaage!" the announcer screams into his microphone, as both the men and the women in the crowd whoop and holler. Castiel looks around at the audience, wondering what the fuss is about, until he glances back at the stage and sees the man from the bathroom hallway strutting out onto the catwalk.

"Oh dear Lord in Heaven," Castiel blurts out, and he hears Gabriel bark out laughter beside him.

"You thanking God for Dr. Sexy up there, or asking God to forgive you for the sins you're wanting to commit right now?"

Castiel ignores his brother, his attention solely on Tyler Page. He's got a white lab coat on over the green scrubs, and cowboy boots on his feet. He's wearing black-rimmed glasses that give him the air of a serious professional. Castiel watches as Tyler begins bouncing to the music, the beat fast and hard. Castiel recognizes the song, but can't place it until the chorus begins. _Doctor, doctor, give me the news/I got a bad case of lovin' you…_

The lyrics are definitely appropriate, and the rhythm is perfect for a striptease of this nature. Tyler slings the lab coat off, throwing it across the stage. He smirks as he looks out at the crowd, one foot bouncing to the beat as he begins to tease and slowly raise his scrub shirt. The crowd, women and men alike, whistle and cat call at the first glimpse of Tyler's tan abs, hipbone peeking out above the low-riding waistband of his pants. He wags a finger at the audience and lets the hem of his shirt fall back down, laughing in surprise at the "Awww" and "Take it off!" replies he hears from the crowd.

He turns his back on the audience, begins to shimmy and shake his rear to the music, exposing the tightness of the pants to everyone, leaving nothing to the imagination. Castiel hears Gabriel comment, "Damn, you could bounce quarters off that ass!" but he ignores his brother, completely hypnotized by Tyler. He's not the best dancer, not by any stretch of the imagination. He doesn't perform any fancy moves or intricate routines. What's so entrancing about him is how he doesn't seem completely at ease, how he seems almost vulnerable. Yet, he also appears to be having fun, and looks genuinely surprised whenever he gets a positive response from the crowd.

Castiel begins to wonder just how new to stripping Tyler must be, but before his mind can wander Tyler pulls his scrub top over his head, revealing lean, tan skin, and strong, muscled shoulders. He has a tattoo of what looks to be a star or a pentagram over his left pectoral, which Castiel finds intriguing. He smiles out at the audience when he hears the screams of appreciation, the smile being a practiced grin, wide enough to show off his perfect teeth and dimples.

Tyler bounces his way to the side of the stage in front of Castiel's table, taking a moment to glance down at the audience. When his eyes meet Castiel's he pauses for a second, the plastic smile dropping off his face to be replaced briefly by the same warm, shy smile he'd given Castiel in the hallway. But he's turning away and bouncing to the other side of the stage before Castiel has even had a chance to catch his breath, his heart having stopped when their eyes met.

Gabriel shouts, "What the hell was that? Did you just have a _moment_ with Dr. Sexy?!"

Castiel hushes his brother without taking his eyes off of Tyler. The fake grin is plastered across his face again as he gyrates to the music. Once the song begins reaching its crescendo, Tyler's face becomes serious as he looks out at the audience, lips pouting as he narrows his eyes. He reaches down, grabs the legs of his scrub pants, and rips them off, the crowd roaring as he reveals a skimpy thong underneath.

Castiel averts his eyes, suddenly embarrassed for the man, but he quickly looks back because the dancer is, quite simply, stunning. The only imperfection he may have, if one could call it that, is that he's a bit bow-legged. But Castiel would never call that a fault, at least not on Tyler Page. It only makes him more endearing, if such a thing were even possible.

Tyler completes his routine, escaping behind the curtain to loud applause and whistles. Castiel stares after him, oblivious to Gabriel smirking beside him until his brother clears his throat and waves a hand in front of Castiel's face.

"Hello, Earth to Cas!"

Castiel shakes his head and blinks, clearing his thoughts of what he'd just seen. "Yes?"

Gabriel laughs. "Oh man, have you got it bad."

Castiel can feel his cheeks flush, and he reaches for his glass, quickly gulping down the last dregs of his beer. He feels Gabriel staring at him and tries to ignore him until his pulse slows down. He's aware that if he lets onto his brother just how affected he was by Tyler Page, Gabriel will never let him live it down, but after a few moments of shared silence, Gabriel pushes up.

"I need to go hit the head," he announces, as he weaves away through the other tables.

Castiel heaves a sigh of relief, taking advantage of his brother's absence to get himself under control. The combination of the alcohol and nervousness of being in a public place, along with the mere existence of Tyler Page, has Castiel feeling light-headed and confused, yet he finds he's surprisingly calm and content given the circumstances and surroundings.

Of course, Gabriel is able to disrupt the calm as easily as a foot shuffling through an anthill. Castiel feels a slap on his shoulder as his brother returns to the table.

"Guess what I just got for you, little bro."

Castiel eyes the smug look on Gabriel's face suspiciously. "Gabriel, what did you do?"

"Turns out, some of the dancers here give private dances in the VIP rooms in back. And your loverboy is one of 'em."

Castiel feels all the color drain out of his face as his jaw drops to the floor. He reaches for his pint, but noticing it's empty, he grabs Gabriel's glass instead, chugging the rest of the now-warm liquid down in panicked gulps.

He wipes the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand once he's done, and stares at his brother incredulously. "Gabriel, I can't go into that room," he manages finally. He shakes his head as he's speaking, stops once he realizes it makes the room spin.

"Sure you can, Cas," his brother picks up cheerfully. "I explained to a waiter what your _situation_ is and asked him what the layout was like. It's a normal room, about the size of your den, with a couch and a chair. There's a table and some shelves too, where the dancer hooks up his iPod or whatever for the music. You sit down on the chair or the couch, wherever you're comfortable, the dancer comes in, asks if you have any requests, then he does his dance for you." Gabriel smirks. "The dude said sometimes they'll do lap dances, sometimes not, it depends on what the dancer feels like doing. I'm guessing by the way Dr. Sexy checked you out, he'd be willing to climb in your lap."

Gabriel grins at Castiel, looking very proud of himself. Castiel wants to slap the smile off his face, but decides he'd rather not get arrested for sibling abuse tonight.

"Gabe, I can't."

Gabriel nods his head. "You can, and you _will_. When's the next time you're gonna be in a situation like this? Knowing you, probably never. Take advantage of the chance to be spontaneous, for once." His face sobers for a moment. "What's the worst that could happen, Cas?"

Castiel groans, biting his lip as he stares at the couples wrapped around each other on the dance floor near the bar. "Okay."

He rolls his eyes as Gabriel whoops and slaps him on the back. "That's my boy!"

 

***************************

 

Turns out, the worst that could happen is actually pretty damn bad.

Gabriel accompanies Castiel down one of the hallways on the opposite side of the building from the bar, his voice a comforting drone.

"The waiter said the bouncer for the VIP rooms tonight is named Gordon. He said he's a big-time asshole, so just keep your mouth shut and do as he says. I've already paid for you, so I'm gonna let him see me so he knows you've been paid for, and then I'm going back to our table. I'll be waiting for you once you're done."

He slows Castiel to a halt just ahead of a door on the left, near the end of the corridor. A man Castiel assumes to be Gordon is guarding the door, a sour look on his face. He stares at them both stonily, waiting for them to speak.

Gabriel clears his throat. "This is my brother, Cas. He'll be on the receiving end of the private dance I paid you for a few minutes ago, if you'll recall."

Gordon stares at them both for several long seconds before speaking. "Yeah, I remember you. What, you think I'm some freak who can't remember an asshole he spoke to ten minutes ago?"

Gabriel puts on his best kiss-ass smile as he places his hand on the small of Castiel's back to steady him. "Nope, not at all. Just wanted to be clear that the plans hadn't changed." He pats Castiel between the shoulders. "Cas, I'll be waiting for you back at the table. Try to enjoy yourself, okay?"

He turns to walk away, and Castiel calls after him. "Gabe, I think I shouldn't—"

"You'll be fine, Cas," Gabriel calls after him as he makes his way to the end of the hall and back onto the main floor. "It'll all be okay. Just live in the moment!"

Castiel turns and stares up into Gordon's unforgiving face. The man stands over him menacingly, probably just to let Castiel know that even though he's paid and passed muster, he's still under watchful eyes.

"Okay, so here's how it's gonna go down," Gordon snarls. "You're gonna put your hands against the wall so I can frisk you. Then you'll sit down on the chair or the couch inside this room and wait for Page. When he gets in there, you will have twenty minutes max with him. It may be less..." He leers as he lets his gaze rake down Castiel's body. "But it will most definitely not ever be more than twenty, no matter if you shoot your wad or not. So, if that's your goal, don't be holding back for too long, otherwise you'll be screwed – and not in the good way."

He grabs Castiel by the shoulder and swings him around to face the wall, Castiel yelping at the discomfort as the man squeezes his arm. "Now's the time you put your hands on the wall, Einstein."

Castiel does as he's told, feeling more humiliated by the second. This isn't what he'd imagined it'd be, not that he's ever really imagined anything like this before. But everything is so clinical and businesslike. He's not stupid, he knows this is a business transaction, but still.

"Spread your legs, man. Can't frisk you if you're clenched so tight you could shit a diamond."

Castiel is a split second away from calling the whole thing off and asking for Gabriel's money back, but thankfully Gordon makes the frisking as quick and painless as possible.

"Alright, hotshot, let's get you in here and go over the rest of the rules."

He slaps Castiel on the back as he reaches around him to open the door, and Castiel walks in ahead of him, gulping as he hears the door closing behind him.

"Take a seat."

Castiel takes a moment to glance around the room. It's decorated sparingly, but lush all the same. The walls are painted red, with gold and purple trim, and there are pillows and soft throws tossed around on tables and chairs throughout. The floor is a black lacquered tile. There's a single large chair in the middle of the room, and a leatherette couch along the back wall. As much as Castiel may want to run for the safety of the couch, he gets the feeling Gordon meant for him to sit on the chair, so he sets himself down there.

"Alright now," the man declares importantly. "Despite what you might think, the dancer is the boss in this room. What he says goes. He doesn't take requests unless he tells you so. If you do or say something he doesn't like, he'll tell you once to stop it. If he has to tell you twice, it won't be him telling you, it'll be me."

Gordon leans down, stares into Castiel's face so closely that their noses almost touch. "Trust me when I say you don't want me to be the one telling you to stop." He straightens back up. "And the biggest rule, the most important rule of them all: Absolutely. NO. TOUCHING."

He stands there, staring down at Castiel. "Any questions?"

Castiel looks up at him from under his lashes, refusing to give him the benefit of seeing him squirm anymore than he already has. "Absolutely none," he snaps.

The demeanor on Gordon's face changes so abruptly that Castiel wonders if the man suffers from a multiple personality disorder. He grins and claps his hands loudly. "Fantastic! Now Imma leave you to it, Tyler should be in here in just a few more minutes."

He turns to leave, but changes his mind as if he'd forgotten something. "Oh, one last thing!" He walks over to a cabinet along the right side of the room, opening a door and pulling out a tan-colored towel. "Here's a towel to put in your pants for the jizz. We're all about providing comfort here at Angels and Demons. Enjoy your session!"

Gordon gives him one last parting grin and a wink, before turning to leave the room and slamming the door shut behind him.

 _Yep_ Castiel thinks, _definitely multiple personalities_.

Castiel sits quietly, trying to make his head stop spinning so much as he waits for Tyler to enter. The more he concentrates on making things still, the more they spin, leaving him sweaty and nauseous. Thankfully, there's a air vent in the ceiling above his chair blowing a draught on his face, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the cool air gratefully even if it's rank with the taint of sweat and cigarette smoke.

He hears a door click, and opens his eyes to see Tyler Page enter from a door hidden in the shadows at the front of the room. He's wearing the medical scrubs from his routine minus the white coat, and he doesn't look at Castiel as he walks the few steps to a sound system on the shelves off to the left, stopping to connect his iPod to the stereo. As he's playing with the gadget, he opens his mouth wide to yawn, glancing over in mid-yawn to where Castiel is sitting. He seems surprised to find Castiel there and staring at him, and he blushes, looking down at the floor before quickly returning Castiel's gaze.

"Sorry, man. It's not you, I'm just a bit tired." He smiles that same warm smile that Castiel has been rewarded with twice before, stirring the butterflies in Castiel's stomach to a frenzied pace. "So, uh, is there any kind of music you prefer? I don't have a shit-ton of it, but I think I've got a pretty decent selection."

He fidgets some more with his iPod, and Castiel has to clear his throat a couple of times before he finds his voice. "No, just whatever you'd prefer," he finally manages to croak.

Tyler nods, and settles on a slow song, a classic rock tune that Castiel recognizes. He watches as Tyler begins to casually sway to the music, gliding his hands along his stomach, teasing the hem up ever so languidly. He keeps his eyes closed as he dances, face serious in concentration and lips pursed. The beat of this song is quite different from that in his performance earlier, a slow seduction as the singer croons _I'm ready for love, ooooh baby, I'm ready for love…_

Castiel's breathing is rapid, but he sits completely still, hypnotized by the man before him. He spares a quick thought to the fact that he must look like a cobra mesmerized by the snake charmer before him as he feels his phantom sways mirroring Tyler's, then chuckles to himself as he realizes that this could be considered another type of snake charmer.

Tyler steps closer to Castiel as the music ends, opening his eyes to smile down at Castiel with that same soft curve of lips from before. He studies Castiel's face for a few moments before murmuring, "So. Would you like a lap dance?"

Castiel feels his eyes go wide as his heart and stomach both seize up. "What?" he croaks, and he jumps as the next song begins to play, another classic rock song, louder, faster, and more suggestive than the one before.

Tyler grins. "A lap dance," he repeats. You know, I sit in your lap, take things to the next level…"

His gaze wanders up and down Castiel's body, and Castiel can feel his face and neck flushing hot, his palms clammy from sweat. It's suddenly very hard to breathe in the room, the atmosphere is stifling, and he wonders if they turned the air off, because it's hot and humid, and it's making him feel very sick to his stomach very quickly. "No, I think that wouldn't be a very good idea," he manages to mutter.

He stares at the table opposite, wondering when they managed to get two of everything into the room without him noticing. Come to think of it, there are two Tylers in the room now too, which normally might not be such a bad thing, but Castiel is getting the feeling that tonight it means something very bad indeed. He watches as Tyler shrugs and says, "Your loss," before beginning to dance to the music again.

Castiel does his best to focus on Tyler, but all he can see is the spinning of the room, faster and faster. He finally is able to pinpoint Tyler through all the glaring movement, long enough to watch Tyler's slender fingers pull the drawstring from his pants and begin to push the waistband down.

And then, before he really figures out what the barrel roll in the pit of his stomach is signaling, Castiel vomits all over the floor between himself and the man in front of him.

He heaves several times, bringing up everything he's eaten and drunk for what might be the last six months if the quantity is anything to go by, and he doubles over, arms wrapped around himself as his stomach threatens to turn itself inside out. He can hear someone curse a rough, _holy fucking shit!_ but he's so busy alternately holding onto what's left and willingly hurling up everything _ever_ , that he can't hear anything else or even open his eyes to look around him.

As if he's hearing it from a very long distance away and through a tunnel, Castiel becomes aware of a muffled scraping, the sound of something moving across the floor. A small plastic trashcan is shoved under his face, between his legs, and suddenly he can feel a hand tentatively touching his shoulder, making its way slowly down his back, a gentle, steadying motion.

Castiel keeps retching until there's nothing left in his stomach, dry-heaving a few times for good measure before his gut finally begins to stop its churning. All through it, the hand continues to rub small, soothing circles along his spine as Castiel groans, his head feeling as if it's splitting in two.

"Ssshhhh, it's okay, just relax and let it all out," a voice murmurs beside him. "Concentrate on your breathing, in through your mouth, out through your nose. That way you don't smell the puke."

 _Tyler Page_ , Castiel recalls in horror. In the next second, he hears the other man shift away, and almost instantly he misses the warmth and reassurance of having him pressed close, the comfort of his hand against his back. He doesn't dare open his eyes yet, but he can hear Tyler opening a drawer across the room, as well as what sounds like the pop of a plastic bottle or lid. Before he has time to wonder what the man is doing, Castiel feels him settle down beside him once again, and a cool, damp cloth is suddenly pressed to his brow. The hand returns to trace circles along his spine again, and between that and Tyler's other hand, holding the washcloth against his forehead, Castiel finds himself inadvertently cocooned in the man's arms.

"My little brother always told me a cool, wet towel helps clear your head and makes your stomach settle," Tyler mutters against Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel takes several deep, cleansing breaths. "Yes, I do believe it is helping," he whispers. He opens his eyes, spies the mess he made on the floor, and feels his stomach turn over again.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there, dude. Don't look at the floor, just…come over here to the couch, let's get you away from the spewage."

Tyler coaxes Castiel up from his chair and guides him the few paces to the couch. He sinks down alongside Castiel and continues rubbing his back. Castiel can feel Tyler's eyes on him, and waits to hear what he's working up to say.

"Look, uh…didn't I see you here with somebody?"

Castiel slowly turns his head to look Tyler in the eyes, doing his best to keep the world from spinning again. "Yes, my brother," he wheezes. "Gabriel. He's waiting for me at our table."

Tyler shoots him a reassuring smile. "Great! Maybe I should go out and get him, have him come in here to take you home. Does that sound like a good idea to you?"

Castiel tries to return the smile, but he fears the result is watery at best. "Yes, I think that would be wise."

Tyler stands up to leave, but Castiel grabs his wrist before he can walk away. "I'm so, _so_ sorry for this," he says weakly. "I was just so nervous, and I'm not used to drinking that much, and I'd taken medicine earlier that—"

"Hey. Dude, it's okay, trust me." Tyler looks down at him, that half-smile that Castiel has quickly grown so fond of making a reappearance. "I always like it when people surprise me, and it doesn't happen often enough. Plus, I bet Gordon has never cleaned up _this_ kind of bodily fluid before. It's almost worth it just to see the look on his face when he walks in."

He pauses, staring down at Castiel before putting a hand up to card his fingers hesitantly through Castiel's hair, wiping the sweat-soaked locks from Castiel's forehead. And then, without another word, he spins and strides away through the door.

Several minutes pass, Castiel sitting with his face in his hands, soaking in the relative quiet and trying to regain his composure. He jumps when he hears the door swing open, Gabriel bellowing, "Little bro, when I said what's the worst that can happen, it wasn't a challenge for you to prove me wrong."

Castiel groans, slowly raising his head to look at his brother. He notices with disappointment, though no surprise, that Tyler Page is nowhere to be seen. "Gabriel, please just take me home," he groans.

He closes his eyes and covers his face with his hands again as he hears Gabriel chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah, if only you were Casey saying that to me, the night would be ending perfectly."

 

 

***************************

 

  



	2. Chapter 2

  
Trolls beating drums to the tunes of hip hop music is not one of Castiel's preferred ways to wake up in the morning, neither is waking to a room which is obviously on the surface of the sun or finding a fistful of cotton balls stuffed in one's mouth.

Awakening to what feels like all three states simultaneously is akin to one of Dante's outer circles of Hell.

Castiel sits up, panicking and arms flailing, to music blaring from somewhere in his bedroom. He attempts to open his eyes, groaning in pain as white light momentarily blinds him and makes his head feel as if knives are cutting in through his skull and twisting gashes in his gray matter. Not knowing which offense to rectify first, he struggles to free himself of his bed sheets, only managing to get his legs more tangled and falling with a thump onto the hardwood floor. With his eyes scrunched tightly shut, he crawls his way to the windows, reaching up to feel blindly for the cord, yanks it so hard he almost expects to pull the whole arrangement down onto his head as he blankets the room in merciful darkness.

He's careful to keep his head as steady as he can as he stands and feels his way around the room until he finds the source of the loud music. His alarm clock, moved from its usual perch on his nightstand to a corner on the opposite side of the room, hidden underneath his coat and tuned into a hip-hop station with the volume on maximum.

 _Gabriel_.

As he crawls back under the covers, Castiel tries to remember why Gabriel was in his room last night, and how he could have done these things without Castiel noticing. _Is Gabriel also responsible for how awful I feel?_ , he wonders. He doesn't understand how it could be Gabriel's fault, but doesn't know how else to explain everything. It feels almost like a hangover, but the last time Castiel drank enough to warrant a hangover was years ag—

 _Oh my God. OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod_.

Castiel suddenly remembers everything from last night, the whole evening flashing before his eyes so fast and with such clarity that he's forced to scramble over the edge of his bed, reaching desperately for his trashcan before vomiting pitifully. He's surprised there's anything left in his stomach, given how much he'd rid himself of at Tyler Page's feet last night, but then he remembers Gabriel forcing him to drink water and eat a slice of toast before putting him to bed. That explains why Gabriel chose to torture him with the music and the sunshine; he can never let a good deed go without a prank or two to offset it.

Lying with his head and arm hanging off the side of the bed, Castiel closes his eyes and prays that what he's recalling from the night before is, in fact, just some horrid nightmare that Gabriel found a way to inject into his brain as another prank gone awry. But he knows it's not. He knows that everything he's remembering did actually happen, and he's horrified to realize that his first outing in months went so terribly wrong.

Why do these things always seem to happen to him? How is it that millions of people can function in public every day without panic attacks and without embarrassing themselves, yet he can't even go out once without having a near-complete meltdown and puking in the lap of what was probably the most alluring man he's met in years?

Castiel whimpers, his head throbbing in pain and his stomach roiling in sympathy. He pulls the covers over his head and wraps his arm around a pillow, wallowing in self-pity before falling back into an uneasy sleep.

 

 

***************************

 

Three hours later, Castiel wakes feeling much more rested and like himself again. He chooses to continue on with his morning routine as if he'd gotten up at his usual early time, deliberately not thinking about the disaster of last night. He makes his way into the kitchen and gets a pot of coffee brewing before slicing fresh cantaloupe and strawberries onto a plate. Stomach still feeling a little nauseous, he decides to add a couple slices of dry toast to his usual morning breakfast.

He sets his plate and mug of coffee on the kitchen table before retrieving the morning paper from his doorstep. The apartment feeling too quiet, he powers up his computer and chooses his Sunday Morning Mix to play in the background as he reads, a calming mix of music that he usually saves for lazy, rainy Sunday mornings. He's feeling too vulnerable and raw today, so he needs whatever he can find to stabilize and soothe him.

As he's catching up on the morning headlines, he can hear his computer chiming to notify him of new emails received, and after forty-five minutes of listening to email after email arriving in his inbox, curiosity gets the better of him. He pours himself another cup of coffee and sits down at his laptop, scrolling through his inbox to find three emails from Pamela and two from Gabriel, among others.

 _Denial_ , he thinks. It isn't just a river in Egypt, after all.

He decides to get his morning chores out of the way first, adding strawberries, spinach, coffee, and eggs to his grocery list for the week before placing his order online. One of the perks of living in this day and age is the ease with which one can become a recluse, he muses. He can order everything he needs online, have anything his heart desires, within reason, and all without ever leaving the comfort and safety of his home. His inner voice snorts. _Not everything your heart desires_ , but he ignores it, sifts through his other emails, trashing the spam and succinctly answering those that require replies.

Taking a deep breath then, he opens the first of Pamela's emails, sighing over her pleas to tell her that he's started writing the first chapter. "How many more ways can I tell you," he murmurs out loud. He doesn't know what else to say to her. He would give anything to feel inspiration strike, to be able to write down the words that so desperately need to be written. He wishes he could lie, say that yes, the ideas are finally beginning to develop, yes, he'll be sending her this first chapter sooner rather than later. But he's never been a very good liar, especially not to someone he values as a friend.

He opens her next email, and nearly chokes when he reads it.

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> You went out last night?! TO A STRIP CLUB??!! I need details, ALL OF THE DETAILS.

Almost afraid to open it, he scrolls to Pamela's last email, cursing to himself as he sees what's written.

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> So Gabe says you puked all over Dr. Sexy but that you were close to being able to wear a "The doctor is _in_ " sign on your ass. GET OVER YOUR HANGOVER AND GIVE ME THE DEETS, HONEYBEE!"
> 
> Pam

Rubbing his palm over his eyes, Castiel wonders what he did in a past life that deserves something as painful and dangerous as Gabriel and Pamela becoming friends and actually talking to each other. About him.

He scrolls down to Gabriel's first email.

 

>   
>  From: sugar lips69@gmail.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> Hey Cas, hope my hangover wake up alarm didn't kill you, but how could I resist? You make my job as big brother too easy sometimes.
> 
> Don't forget to hydrate when you wake up, and send Pamela an email, poor kid is worried about you.
> 
> Gabe

 

His heart drops to the floor as he opens Gabriel's second email.

 

 

>   
>  From: sugarlips69@gmail.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> Almost forgot, I snuck a pic of Dr. Sexy with my phone last night, thought it might give you a happy. See attached.
> 
> Happy masturbating!
> 
> Your loving and selfless brother,
> 
> Gabriel

 

The picture is grainy and dim, due to the lighting of the club, but it's clear who the subject is, nonetheless. Gabriel must have taken it when Tyler went to find him after Castiel was sick. Castiel recognizes the hallway to the VIP room, and Tyler is walking in front of the camera, but he's turned and facing it, mouth twisted in a smile that isn't as warm and amused as the smile he's used to seeing. It isn't the smile he gives to Castiel.

Castiel doesn't know which is more worrisome: the fact his heart is fluttering just from looking at a picture of this man, or the fact that he's already come to think of a particular smile as _his_.

 

 

***************************

 

Castiel decides to continue his attempt at keeping his routine as normal as possible by taking his daily jog on the treadmill. Opening the blinds to the sunlight is nowhere near as painful as waking up to it this morning, and he's pleased to see that the day is still bright and beautiful. He stares down at the park across the street as he runs, imagining as always that he's outside, enjoying the fresh air and the smell of freshly-mown grass, instead of cooped up inside his apartment.

He watches as a distant child tries to fly his kite, failing his first few attempts to get enough wind under it to give it flight, throwing the kite onto the ground and stomping away. The child's father picks the kite up, takes it a few steps further into a bigger clearing between the trees, and begins jogging with the kite's spine held up between his fingers and behind his head. As soon as the kite pulls away from the man's hands and begins its ascent the child jumps up and down, arms up in celebration. Castiel can feel his heart clench at the sweetness of the scene before him, and he looks away quickly before the feeling can become too bittersweet.

He heads to the shower once his run is over, remaining under the beating of the water much longer than necessary, luxuriating in the steaminess and the feeling of a much-needed rejuvenation. And if he wants to dwell on thoughts of green eyes and broad, tan shoulders, that's entirely up to him.

Feeling much more like himself once again, Castiel makes his way into his office and takes his seat behind the desk, turning on his computer. He stares at that same evil blinking cursor again for what seems like hours, mind straying to last night, his thoughts settling squarely on Tyler Page. _How does a person find himself with a job like that?_ he wonders. Tyler seemed at times uncomfortable and awkward, almost as if he didn't want to be there. The yawn that Castiel saw might be evidence for that theory, as well. But at other times, he seemed to be enjoying himself, feeding off of the audience's cheers and support. There was a vulnerability there that Castiel finds intriguing.

How much could one make in a night of dancing? Castiel supposes if a dancer is attractive enough, he could make quite a bit, especially off of the private dances. He has no clue how much Gabriel paid for his own _VIP experience_ , but he doesn't doubt that it was substantial, given just how up close and personal the dances can potentially get. What kind of life would one have to lead to become a dancer? Is the life as glamorous as one is led to believe? Castiel thinks not, as he remembers his first encounter with Tyler, eyes closed and voice upset as he spoke with someone on the phone outside the bathroom. How can one go from an upsetting moment like that to smiling and dancing, and taking off their clothes for onlookers just minutes later?

What could have had Tyler so upset? In those few moments while Castiel was sick, Tyler was so warm and comforting, his touch a balm as he rubbed Castiel's back, and it suddenly occurs to Castiel that it's one of the few times he can remember that he hasn't tensed up and panicked when someone touches him. Instead he was calmed by it. Granted, it could have been because he was feeling so violently ill at the time, but Castiel doesn't believe that was entirely the reason. Tyler seemed to know exactly how to provide comfort; knew just what Castiel needed. Castiel finds himself wondering how Tyler became so experienced in such a thing, providing security and a reassurance that seemed almost parental.

"I want to see you again," he hears himself say out loud, but at almost the same time, a wave of anxiety washes over him at the thought of going out in public. How can he work up the nerve to go back there, by himself, to such a crowded public place, and after the humiliation that he suffered?

He has no clue how he can manage it. All he knows at that moment is that he has to find a way.

"I _have_ to see you again," he says.

 

 

***************************

 

It takes Castiel two weeks to summon the courage to return to Angels and Demons. Not only to summon the courage, but to plan the expedition as well.

He'll be driving himself this time, on a Friday night as before, in the hopes that everything will be as similar as possible to his first visit, thereby diminishing the risk of surprises. He plots the route to avoid traffic hotspots, calls the nightclub to inquire about their parking arrangements, and is dismayed to learn that the arrangements are sparse at best. There's a small lot to one side of the building, but no other options besides scouring the downtown area for a lot that's open or a parking garage. Castiel does what he can to map out all the possible opportunities within a three-block radius of the club, and tells himself that if a space isn't available in any of those areas then he'll just turn around and go home.

Three days before his return to the club, he wakes at dawn and makes his way to the underground garage. He knows the last time he drove his car, there was very near a quarter of a tank of fuel left. Rationally, he's aware he'll have plenty of gas to make the ten-minute trek to the club, but he still can't help worrying that for some unforeseen reason he'll run out of fuel and be left stranded in the middle of the night.

He drives out of the garage and across the deserted street, giving a silent prayer of thanks that he seems to be ahead of the early-morning rush. Even so, he still finds himself wincing when a car approaches the fuel pump opposite him as he's filling up his own tank. No matter how empty and quiet and safe a street may seem, the knowledge that it can all change within a second keeps Castiel on edge until he's safely back at his condo.

Friday finally arrives, and Castiel's anxiety increases to a level he hasn't felt in many months. No matter how anxious he becomes though, he's determined to go through with the trip. He needs to prove to himself that he can do this, and a part of him also wants to determine whether his interest in Tyler Page is deserved or if the haze of alcohol painted a prettier picture than reality called for.

He begins his preparations for the evening at an absurdly early hour. He showers, then stands in front of the mirror, shaving and scowling to himself because he knows he'll have the beginnings of five o'clock shadow within the hour anyways.

He spends another half-hour studying the layout of the club that Gabriel had given him, then making sure he has the driving route and locations of all parking lots and garages in the area memorized. Once he's as satisfied as he'll ever be that the routes and maps are etched in his brain, he grabs his keys and shrugs on his trench coat. As soon as the coat is wrapped around him, he feels better. He's never been able to explain it to anyone or even really been able to understand it himself, but the coat has always made him feel protected and stronger, almost as if it's a shield to keep him safe. His therapist suggested that it's the little kid in him, fantasizing that the coat is his superhero cape. Castiel doesn't really care, so long as it continues to provide comfort and a feeling of safety.

The drive to the club is an uneventful one. Traffic is heavy, as he expected, but not overwhelmingly so. The one problem Castiel encounters is his attempt to find a parking space, but after some time he does locate one in the parking garage a block over. As he walks to the club, he's relieved to discover that the street is very well lit and, though busy, not frantic and distracting.

Entering the club is a different story, though. He's greeted with the now familiar thumping of music as he walks through the corridor of stars. As he reaches the end of it, he can hear hooting and catcalls over the music, and the hallway opens onto a crowd that is significantly larger than last time, so large that Castiel freezes for a moment of regret that he drove here, and more than one beer isn't an option.

His eyes scan the room until he spots an empty table to his left, far away from the stage and in the shadows. He makes his way quickly to that corner before anyone else can grab the table. It's exactly what he was hoping to find – a small nook, set back from the crowd and the stage, a place where he can watch unnoticed by anyone. Once settled, he allows his gaze to roam the room as he attempts to get his breathing under control. This experience is far different from his first time here, with Gabriel and a bellyful of booze acting as buffer between him and the world.

"Welcome to Angels and Demons! What can I get for you tonight?"

Castiel jumps as he hears the loud voice yell beside him, glances up to see a thin, scruffy-looking young man with sad eyes and a nervous demeanor. He's not wearing the usual garb of most waiters here; instead of a halo and wings or demon horns and red or black lipstick, he's wearing what looks almost to be a toga, from shoulder to ankle in long, flowing robes.

Castiel replies, "I, um. I suppose I'll have a beer."

The waiter sighs. "Well, we've got I don't even know how many different kinds of beer. Are you looking for imported, domestic, bottled, tap—"

"Whatever's good on tap is fine. Just…I don't care, just surprise me."

Castiel can feel the man studying him suspiciously, but he keeps his focus on the dance floor, and breathes a sigh of relief as he watches the man turn and walk away from the corner of his eye.

There's no performer on stage yet, and Castiel idly wonders if they're between performances or if none have started yet for the evening. There's a raucous group of women who seem to have commandeered three of the tables in front of the stage, including the table that Castiel and Gabriel had occupied on their first visit here. Instead of calming them down though, the scantily clad waiters seem to be encouraging them further, and Castiel can't help but wonder how much that must help everyone's tips, waiters, bartenders, and dancers alike. It must be a fine line to walk, though. If the patrons get too intoxicated, they might just forget to tip.

He catches a movement in his direction out of the corner of his eye and sees his waiter rushing towards him from the bar, balancing a tray with a large mug of frothy beer on one hand. Castiel attempts a small smile at the man, but fears it develops into more of a grimace instead. He mumbles a word of thanks as the waiter sets the glass on his table, but the waiter hovers even so, clearing his throat in a way that sounds uncertain.

"I'm sorry, am I supposed to pay now?" Castiel prods cautiously. "I assumed I'd get a check or you'd wait to see if I need anything else or something…" He allows his words to trail off, silently encouraging the man to say whatever he's hovering there to say, so that he can be left alone in peace again.

The waiter's reply is high-pitched enough to be nervous. "Um, what? Oh…no. No, no! You can just pay me later. I just, I mean, uhhhh, I was wondering. Didn't you come in here a couple weeks ago? With another dude, and you sat up front?"

Castiel can feel the bottom drop out of his stomach and his breath quickening. Does everyone at the club know what happened to him in the VIP room? Is he a laughingstock? "Yes…" he concedes reluctantly. "I did. With my brother. Why do you ask? And how did you know?" He's almost too afraid to find out for sure, but he has to know. He has to know if Tyler Page has been laughing about him with everyone all this time.

The waiter laughs nervously. "Oh, I just – I'm the guy that talked to your brother about reserving the table up front, and about not letting anyone bother you while you were here. I mean, I talked to him at first, but then he saw Candy walk by and he said he'd rather talk to her about it, so yeah."

Castiel heaves a sigh of relief. So maybe Tyler hasn't told anyone about it. Or at least not _everyone_. "Oh, well, yes. That was me." He watches as the man fidgets more, but still doesn't move to leave. "Was there something else you wanted to ask?"

The waiter stares at the table, eyes flitting up to meet Castiel's every couple seconds. "Um, yeah, well we're not supposed to do this with the patrons, we're supposed to be all cool…but aren't you Castiel Novak?"

Castiel can feel his eyes widen in shock. He's never been recognized before. Then again, he's never really had much opportunity, given how he never leaves his house. "Yes, I am. How did you know?"

The man jumps excitedly in place. "Dude, I am a _huge_ fan of your Angel Warrior series!"

Castiel jumps back in his seat as the man darts his hand forward for a handshake. He stares down at the hand for a moment before reluctantly offering up his own.

"My name's Chuck Shurley, by the way," the waiter babbles on. "I really do love your writing, Mr. Novak. It's such an honor to meet you."

He keeps pumping Castiel's hand in a shake, up and down, up and down, for what feels to be about five minutes too long. Castiel finally begins to pull his hand away in an attempt to reclaim it, and Chuck seems to take the hint, letting go and taking a step back.

"I'm so sorry, man. I know you don't like interacting with people much, trust me, I get it. I'd much rather be holed up at home, wrapped up in my bathrobe and working on my own novel." He smiles sheepishly at Castiel.

"So, how is it that you are working here, and not 'holed up'?" Castiel can't help but ask. The man really doesn't fit in with the stereotypical work force of a club like this.

Chuck grimaces. "Not all of us are as successful as you. I've gotta pay the bills somehow, and since I don't so much fit in with your typical nine-to-five workforce, I have to take what I can get. The owner of this club owed my dad a favor, so he hired me." He looks down at his robe and scoffs. "Since I'm less washboard abs and more washline pole, they didn't want me wearing the tight shorts and walking around shirtless, thank god. So, they made me the club's prophet. Come to me to see your future, or some shit like that."

Castiel can't help but smile at the way Chuck describes his predicament. "Well, I'm sure you'll find success at some point, given your colorful way with words," he notes. It's a platitude, a way to signal to Chuck that the conversation is ending and to please move on to his next customer. Unfortunately, the man clings to Castiel's words like a lifeline, his eyes widening in a way that looks hopeful.

"You think so? Do you think you could take a look at my novel, tell me what you think? It's about these two brothers that drive across the country, fighting evil demons and ghosts and trying to find their dad and avenge their mom's death and—"

"Chuck!"

The man stops rambling, his mouth hanging open in shock as Castiel yells above the noise of the club, desperate to get his attention. "Chuck, I'm very sorry, but I can't. I'm not allowed to do that. If I read your work and then later write something even remotely similar to something in your novel, I could be sued."

"Oh, I would _never_ —"

"Yes, I know you'd never do such a thing, but really, I couldn't possibly." As much as the excuse is a way for Castiel to dig himself out of this hole, it really is the truth. Pamela would skin him alive if she ever found out he'd read a fledgling writer's work. With the thought of Pamela though, he gets an idea of how to appease the man and get himself out of this conversation.

"You know though, one thing I _can_ do is give you the email address for my editor. She wouldn't usually read a manuscript that just gets sent to her office out of the blue—she lets her assistant do that. But if you email it to her and let her know I'm recommending you, then she might give it a chance."

Chuck's face lights up. "Really? Oh dude, Mr. Novak, that—"

"Please," Castiel says as he jots down Pamela's email address on a napkin. "Call me Castiel."

"Dude, Castiel, thank you so much. This is a huge deal for me, really." Chuck stops, looks around them and scowls. "This place is a fucking meat market, and all this glitter and body oil and costumes…Jesus." He snatches the napkin out of Castiel's hand like it's his ticket out, smiles whitely in the dim light. "Is there anything else I can do for you? Beer is on the house, by the way, it's the least I can do. But don't you want to sit closer to the stage, like before? Say the word and I'll kick that bachelorette party off your old table up front."

Castiel shakes his head. "No, no, no. I much prefer staying back here, out of the way and alone."

Chuck nods as the realization dawns across his face. "Of course! You hate going out in public, so I bet a place like this is like a nightmare for you."

Castiel sighs. "I suppose you could say that, yes."

"So, why are you even here, then? It's not like the internet doesn't provide enough fodder for a recluse to be happy for years."

Castiel hesitates, not wanting to reveal the true reason he's returned. "I…I need to do some research for work."

"Are the angels gonna be getting down and dirty with the humans in the next book, then?" Chuck smirks.

Smiling, Castiel says, "This is for something different. Possibly a new book, I'm not sure yet."

"Okay then, say no more. Consider me your very own personal shield while you're here. I'll keep this corner as empty as possible for you. And if there's anything at all you need, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Chuck. I do appreciate it."

Mercifully, Chuck turns to leave, weaving his way through the crowd around the dance floor and back to the bar on the other side of the room. Castiel takes a deep breath, watching as the room seems to vibrate with energy from the people dancing and the music thrumming. Just as he thinks it's getting too hot, the air thick with sweat and alcohol and cologne, he feels a breeze of cool air waft across him from the vents above. When he glances up to search for where the breeze is originating, the lights dim and a loud voice over the loudspeaker welcomes the first dancer, Nick, to the stage, as "the Devil himself."

Predictably, the women of the bachelorette party scream the loudest as the blonde man dressed in leather and devil horns and carrying a pitchfork takes the stage. The man is older than Castiel was expecting, which comes as a bit of a surprise, and with his age comes a finesse and confidence that only a person who's been doing this for a few years can possess. He struts slowly about the stage, hips rolling to the sultry beats of the music. He clues in swiftly to the fact that the bachelorette party is tip central, and stands on that side of the stage while he unzips his pants. Once he's yanked the pants off, he gets down on his knees and thrusts his barely-concealed crotch at the screaming women, his tongue flicking in sync with his thrusts.

Castiel can understand how some might find that attractive, but for him it's a bit _too_ obvious and practiced. He much prefers a performance that feels more genuine and sincere, and huffs to himself at the thought that any act in a place like this could be considered sincere.

Once Nick has left the stage, g-string wedged full with dollar bills, Castiel sits through two more acts before Tyler Page hits the stage. He's beginning to worry that maybe Tyler isn't working tonight when suddenly the lights dim once again and there he is. Tonight he's a cowboy, and it suits him perfectly. Wearing cowboy boots, buttless leather chaps that flash the tanned globes of his ass every time he flicks up his brown duster, a tight-fitting button-down shirt, and a Stetson, the man looks as if he's just walked in from a saloon in the Old West. The music playing has a fast, dirty beat, and Tyler keeps the brim of his hat down low and hiding his face for most of the first two verses, but at the last line of the second verse, he reaches his finger up and slowly tips his hat back, giving the audience a wink and a smirk before slinging his duster off.

The crowd hoots enthusiastically, and sings along to the chorus, eliciting a smile from Tyler. He begins to mouth the lyrics of the song along with the audience, biting his lower lip occasionally as he peers out into the blaring lights and the crowd beyond. Again, he's not the best dancer at the club, but he's a brilliant performer. He engages and responds to the crowd, and his blushing whenever the crowd gets particularly rowdy is utterly endearing.

As the song draws to a close, Tyler is left wearing nothing but his Stetson, a g-string, and his cowboy boots. As he leans over to accept dollar bills from the bachelorette table, one of the obviously drunker women bravely uses the opportunity to slide her hand up his stomach and along his chest, wrapping her fingers around his bicep and squeezing. Castiel feels such an overwhelming wave of jealousy at the sight that he has to stop himself from running across the room and slinging her away. The emotion shocks him, leaving him uneasy. He has only had one or two fumbled and short-lived relationships in his past, nothing ever going past the first few dates. But with every possible love interest and crush that he's had, he's never been the jealous type.

Until now, it would seem.

He chastises himself for even letting his feelings get to this point. Nothing will ever happen between him and Tyler Page, even if he found the nerve to solicit a private dance with him again. After the disaster of that first time, Tyler would probably recoil in dread if he saw Castiel again. Besides, Castiel has no evidence that Tyler Page is even interested in men. Sure, he doesn't seem to take issue with dancing for them, but it's a long stretch between being comfortable with men staring at him with lust and him returning that stare with lust, as well.

Castiel watches as Tyler leaves the stage, and he's so deep in thought he just barely refrains from yelping when someone looms up beside him.

"So uh, you enjoyed Tyler's routine, huh?" Chuck is standing there again, smiling.

Castiel shifts in his seat uncomfortably, his heart jack-hammering so loudly behind his ribs he thinks it's possible the waiter might even be able to hear it. "Yes, he was very entertaining." He doesn't elaborate, hoping it will discourage the man from trying to continue the conversation further. It's not that Castiel doesn't like Chuck, it's just that his people skills are rusty, at best. He's never been one for small talk, especially in situations where he's uneasy which, to be honest, is almost every situation where he would find himself needing to make small talk.

"You know, uh, he does private dances. Like, in a back room. In private. If you're into that sort of thing."

"Yes," Castiel's voice is an octave higher than his usual gravelly tone, and Chuck looks at him, slightly alarmed. Castiel clears his throat and makes a concerted effort to steady himself. "Yes, I was aware of that. But I don't think I'm interested this evening."

"Oh. Okay. But hey, I hear Tyler's a cool guy and all, although he's kinda intimidating, so I don't talk to him much. But, if you ever want to get a private dance, you let me know and I'll set you up."

Castiel nods, and can't help but ask, "How much would a dance cost?"

"Um, last I heard, he's pulling in about a hundred and fifty bucks per dance." Chuck rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I keep telling myself I need to start working out so I can start making the big bucks, but who am I kidding, right? The only people who'd pay to watch me strip are ones with a scrawny geekboy fetish, and even then, it's pushing it. Anyway, you just let me know if you change your mind."

Castiel forces a smile, and even manages to make it friendly. "Actually, I think I'll be leaving now. I've quite a bit of writing to do."

"Of course! Man, if you ever need someone to bounce ideas off of, you come find me." Chuck swipes a hand across his eyes. "But of course, you're _you_ , so you'd never need an idiot like me helping you out. I'm sorry, I'm still just a little hyped about meeting you."

"It's fine, Chuck. I appreciate your kind words," Castiel reassures him.

"Okay, so uh, you have a good night, and please, visit us again soon, you'll always be welcome here. Like, more welcome than other customers are, you know, like, _really_ welcome. But not, like, in a Kathy Bates kind of way. I don't plan on hobbling you anytime soon or anything. And…I'm just going to shut up and leave now."

Chuck backs away quickly and turns to walk through the crowd. Castiel watches him go, and spends the next ten minutes working up the courage to get up from the table and make his way out of the club and to his car.

He uses thoughts of Tyler Page as a distraction from his anxiety, and before he knows it, he's safely in his car and driving home.

 

 

***************************

 

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
>  
> 
> Cas, I need an update on that chapter! If you keep ignoring me you know I won't hesitate to jump on a plane and harass you in person.
> 
> Check in with me, sugar lips!
> 
> Pam

 

 

> From: castiel.novak@gmail.com  
>  To: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com
> 
>  
> 
> Pam,
> 
> I'm sorry, I haven't been ignoring you, I just was dreading telling you that I've decided to put the book on hold for now.
> 
> This isn't permanent, by any means. And a possible silver lining to this is that I think I may have found a new story, or muse, if you will. I've been doing a small bit of research on it, but I plan to begin researching in earnest this week.
> 
> Do I need to prepare a formal letter of some sort to present to your boss? Something that promises I'm not going back on my contract, and maybe if I don't produce something from this new project within six months or so that I'll return to the Angel series?
> 
> Let me know what the next step may be.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Castiel

 

 

> From: pamela.barnes@halflightpublishing.com  
>  To: castiel.novak@gmail.com
> 
> CALLING YOU RIGHT NOW, YOU BETTER ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE

 

Castiel sighs as he reads Pamela's latest email, and before he can finish the breath he hears his cell phone ringing in his bedroom. He answer it before it can go to voicemail, not wanting to upset her even more than she already is.

"Hello, Pamela."

"Cas, what the hell is going on with you? You've never had this much difficulty writing before, and now all of the sudden you're saying you want to forget about the Angels and write something else? What's happened?"

Castiel settles back on his couch, prepared for the long conversation this will inevitably turn into. "Pam, I just…I've hit some sort of wall with the angels. I can't see past this. My original plan of where this was going next doesn't ring true to me anymore, but I can't think of an alternative."

The woman's sigh crackles down the line. "But Cas, you have a responsibility to hold up your end of the contract. I'm looking at it right now, and it says here that—"

"I know that, and I have every intention of doing so, but I can't force this." Castiel swipes a hand through his hair, keeps going before he's interrupted with _legalese_. "Don't you think it would serve the story if I took a step back, got some perspective, and focused on something else temporarily? Aren't you always telling me to get out and change my viewpoint for a while, that it might help me gain a new perspective? How is this any different from that, other than the length of time?"

There's silence for several seconds before Pam says, "Okay, let's say this gets approved; I'm not saying it _will_ , because Zach is a grade-A jackass and he might turn us down without even hearing us out. But if he approves it, then what next? What's this new muse of yours?"

Castiel pauses, hesitant to say the words out loud, because when he does, it'll mean he's serious about this, both to Pam and to himself. "It's…I'm intrigued by exotic dancers. Why they do what they do, what kind of lives they've led to get them to that point, their mentality on the relationship with their customers, what kind of a lifestyle they lead outside of their job. I'd like to do some exploring on it."

The reply is deadpan. "Wow. When you deviate from your norm, you swing for the fences don't you?"

"…I don't really understand that reference."

Pam laughs. "It means you go all out to be as different as you can. You're going from a long series about angels and a war in Heaven to writing about strippers. That's a pretty fucking drastic change. I wouldn't be surprised if some of your fans sue for whiplash."

"Do you think this is a bad idea?" Even Castiel can hear the insecurity in his voice.

"Oh no, quite the contrary. If done well, I think this could go over like gangbusters. Is this going to be fiction or nonfiction?"

It's something Castiel hasn't really considered, and he hesitates as he thinks on it now, concludes that the idea of writing an exposé into the industry leaves him cold.  
"I don't want it to be sterile," he muses. "I don't want it to be cold. I want warmth. Sincerity. So…I think, depending on the amount of personal experience and information I can get, that I'd like to make it fiction."

Pam chuckles, disbelief evident in her voice. "Personal experience? That's warm, sincere personal experience, I assume? So, does this mean you're planning on getting in some one-on-one time at a strip club?"

"Yes, actually," Castiel retorts tartly. "I've already visited a club twice, so far, and am planning on more visits in the near future." He leans his head along the back of the couch, eyes closed as he waits for Pam to digest this information.

"Twice? Is this the place that your brother made you go to?"

"Yes. It was quite an interesting experience."

Pam snorts. "Obviously. Is there a dancer in particular from which you hope to glean information?"

"…Um, yes."

"I knew it!" she crows. "You're looking to get your freak on, and you're using work as an excuse to do it."

The smugness in Pam's voice grates on Castiel's nerves, but he ignores it. "No, Pam, I assure you, he wouldn't be interested in me for anything other than as a paying customer, especially not after our first encounter."

"Ohhhh, so this is the dude you puked on? Don't sell yourself short, Cas. You can be pretty fucking adorable and sexy, even if you're spewing chunks all over the place."

Groaning, Castiel says, "Nevertheless, odds are I may have to just do remote research. I'm not sure I'll have the nerve to purchase another private dance."

"Nuh uh, no way, Cas. You go investigate that hot piece of ass. You investigate it hard and thoroughly, and leave it begging for more."

"Pam!"

Pam spits out between giggles, "You have my professional consent, Cas. Go forth and delve deep, ram your inquisitive nature right into his—"

"Hanging up now."

"No, wait! Seriously though, how are you able to do this, you know, go out and into a public place? Especially a crowded one like that. It must be one of the worst situations for you, given everything."

Sighing, Castiel thinks before replying. "I had to plan it out completely. My route, where to park. I studied the layout of the club. And even then, it took a while for me to work myself up to it."

"I bet the drugs don't hurt," she needles.

"I'm not on a maintenance medication at the moment," Castiel says quietly. "I just take supplement anxiety meds, as needed."

"And plenty of alcohol, right?"

"I think I learned my lesson with that the first time I went there," Castiel snorts. "Besides, I drive myself, so I can't drink more than maybe a beer, especially with my prescription."

Pam's voice is serious as she says, "Well, Cas, I gotta say, I'm impressed. I was beginning to think you'd never leave your place again, at least not without force. And now look at you, you're leaving on your own terms and without any help. Kudos to you."

Castiel smiles. "Thank you, Pamela. It helps as incentive to remind myself that I'm doing this for my job."

"And I'm sure that studmuffin taking his clothes off for you has nothing to do with it."

"I told you, Pam, there's nothing going on there."

"Riiiight. Email me asap with a summary of what you want to do so I'll have something to show Zach when I give him the bad news."

"I will. And Pamela, thank you. I appreciate your friendship and your confidence in me."

Sighing Pamela says before hanging up, "Yeah, yeah, just keep that in mind when I start busting your balls for the first chapter of your stripper reveal."

Castiel smiles as he ends the call.

 

 

***************************

 

Castiel returns to the club Friday night, and it's somehow fractionally easier to venture outdoors, the drive is less white-knuckle and the after-work throngs he has to thread his way through between the parking lot and his destination are less intimidating. Still, he's relieved to find Chuck on the clock when he arrives.

"Mr. Novak! I mean, Castiel…it's good to see you back again," he hails as Castiel takes a seat at the same table as last week.

"Thank you, Chuck. If you don't mind, I'd like another beer, same as last week," Castiel replies, hoping to cut out any small talk by giving the waiter a task.

The man runs off eagerly enough to do his bidding, and Castiel spares a moment to feel guilt for wanting to be rid of him so soon. He reasons that the effort of making himself leave his home and go out into the world takes so much energy out of him that he doesn't have much left for social interaction, and he's well aware that tonight will probably wear him down even further.

Chuck returns with a mug of beer in hand. "Here ya go, same as last week." He slides the beer in front of Castiel. "You know, if you want, you can call ahead and ask them to reserve this table for you. That way you don't have to worry about whether or not you'll be forced to sit more out in the open."

Castiel feels a rush of affection for the strange man. "I appreciate that, Chuck. Would it be possible just to have a standing reservation for this table for Friday nights?"

"Oh, hell yeah, it would! Honestly, this table isn't really in demand, so it won't be a problem. I'll go ahead and make a note of it."

Chuck turns to leave, but Castiel grits his teeth, clenches his fist, and calls after him, words racing out of him rapid-fire, before his nerve fails. "Chuck, one more thing – would it be possible to arrange a, uh, private dance with Tyler Page for this evening?"

Chuck's eyebrows meet his hairline, but he doesn't reveal more surprise than that. "Yeah, of course. I'll give Gordon a head's up."

"I appreciate it, thank you, Chuck."

Chuck nods and backs away, leaving Castiel to his beer and his anxiety.

 

 

***************************

 

An hour and a half later, Castiel finds himself standing in front of Gordon. The man doesn't seem to remember him from his first visit to the VIP room, which Castiel initially finds to be reassuring given the clean up afterwards. Unfortunately it means the man walks Castiel through the same intimidating spiel as before while Castiel stands with his hands on the wall in front of him and his legs apart for _frisking_.

Gordon leads him into the room, pausing to take a look around to make sure everything meets his requirements. "Okay, so the dancer is the boss in this room. What he says goes, if I hear any complaints from—"

"Yes, I understand, I've heard this before," Castiel jumps in. "I won't cause any problems for anyone."

Gordon steps up to him, staring into his eyes and gritting his teeth. "Oh, Mr. Know-it-all, huh? So you've done this before? Lemme tell you something, okay. Until I remember you and know you're chill, or until the dancer tells me to do otherwise, you're gonna have to listen to my fine speechmaking skills. If you don't like that, you can take your skinny ass on out of here. Capische?"

As uncomfortable as he is with this man up in his face and staring him down, Castiel does not back away. He tries to hold eye contact with him until Gordon looks away, but he's unable to prevent his eyes from glancing to the wall behind him. There's only so much confrontation he can stand for one evening, and he feels he may need to hold onto what fortitude he has left for later.

"Yes, I understand," he mumbles.

Gordon smiles at him, smacking his gum as he continues on with the rules of the room.

Once finished, he leaves Castiel alone to his thoughts while he waits for Tyler. He gathers his wits and wanders around the room, trying to get an idea of what kinds of stories this room would be able to tell if it had voice. So many dances being performed for individuals, so much desire longing to be fulfilled. He wonders for how many people this room would represent the end goal for desire sated, and for how many this is just one way to scratch the never-ending itch; how many are able to pretend that this relationship is reciprocated, and how many are keenly aware that it's nothing more than a business transaction.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a door opening. He turns to find Tyler Page entering the room, wearing the fireman's costume he'd shed during his routine earlier in the night.

Tyler's eyes widen in surprise and recognition. "Hey you, I was wondering if you'd ever show up again." The smile gracing his face is teasing and light, pulling forth a blush and answering smile from Castiel.

"I was almost too embarrassed to come back," Castiel admits, "but I wanted to at least offer my apologies before slinking off into the night again." He's proud of his voice for not wavering once during that sentence, even if his pulse has quickened.

Tyler laughs, "Nah man, it's okay. Trust me when I say that's not the worst that's happened to me in here, not by a long shot."

"Well, still though…I am sorry for what happened."

Tyler stares at him for several seconds, that same smile from before crossing his face. "I'm just glad you weren't scared off for your first time and all. It's good to see you again."

Castiel tilts his head in confusion. "How did you know it was my first time doing something like that? Was I that obvious?"

Huffing in amusement, Tyler shrugs. "Well yeah, kinda. But don't worry, I thought it was sorta cute. And it made me feel a little better having someone else be nervous too, since I haven't been doing this so long myself."

Intrigued, Castiel wants to ask him more about this, find out how long he's been performing, but Tyler turns his back on him and strolls over to the speakers. "Why don't you have a seat and we can get started," he says over his shoulder. "Gordon gets his kicks by timing all the sessions and interrupting before the routine is over."

Castiel is disappointed they won't be continuing their conversation, but he does as he's told and takes a seat on the chair just behind him.

"Any preferences on music, or are you gonna let me pick again?"

"Whatever you feel most comfortable with will be fine," Castiel answers. He doubts he will ever get used to the matter-of-fact way they're discussing what is, essentially, what he needs to happen to get him off. But Tyler has such a frank, open way of conversing that it puts him at ease almost immediately. There's something so charming in a person who seems so comfortable with this yet is still easy to blush if he's caught doing something unawares, like yawning on the job.

Tyler turns and walks slowly towards Castiel as the music begins to play, a bluesy kind of rock song that Castiel hasn't heard before, but he thinks he likes it, all the same. Tyler closes his eyes and rolls his hips to the music, hands sliding up along his stomach and chest, thumbs skirting over his nipples. He's still wearing his shirt, but the fabric is thin and tight enough that the hardened buds are easily seen. His hands continue their trek up, fingers sliding through his short hair, mussing it in a most becoming way, making it easy to fantasize that Castiel's own fingers did the damage.

Tyler lowers his hands to the hem of his shirt, tantalizingly slow as he lifts the material up and over his head, exposing those same broad, freckled shoulders and muscled arms that have given Castiel much food for thought over the past few weeks. Castiel shifts uneasily in his seat as he watches Tyler's fingers skim under the waistband of his pants, eyes jumping quickly to meet Tyler's gaze when he hears a chuckle erupt from the man. Tyler is smirking as he slinks ever closer to Castiel, his stare flicking down to Castiel's crotch.

Castiel can feel his cheeks flush as he realizes that he's half-hard and Tyler noticed it. He glances back up at Tyler, but instead of finding disgust or ridicule on his face, all he finds is a pleased, interested look. The song ends, and as the next one begins, Tyler looks down at Castiel and murmurs, "Would you like a lap dance?"

"I…I don't think so, no thank you," Castiel manages to stammer.

Tyler winks as he replies, "Okay dude, don't ever say I didn't offer."

Castiel manages a smile before he jumps as Tyler places a palm against the top of his head. "You don't mind if I use you for balance, do you?" The words are whispered against his ear as Tyler leans down, fingers of one hand massaging Castiel's scalp as he uses his other hand to work his pants down.

"No, I suppose not," Castiel whispers. What else is one expected to say in a situation like this? He shivers as he feels puffs of warm air along his neck, Tyler taking his time in pushing his pants down and off. He spares a moment to wonder why Tyler chose to remove his pants this way instead of flinging them off as he does on stage, but quickly decides he doesn't care because it gives him the chance to discover what the man smells like, sweat and leather and a spiciness that Castiel can't quite place.

The closeness is intoxicating and doesn't last anywhere near long enough. Tyler pulls away, but doesn't take more than a couple steps back, moving slowly to the music. At this point, he isn't so much dancing as swaying, standing in front of Castiel wearing nothing more than a g-string. His eyes glance down at Castiel's lap every few seconds, and Castiel is more turned on than embarrassed by it. Tyler obviously can see his effect on him, and instead of mocking him about it he looks almost as if he's pleased

Still though, no matter how stimulating this may be, Castiel is determined not to lose control of himself during Tyler's routine. Even if that outcome is to be expected in a situation such as this, he'd like to prove that he's stronger than that shameful first private dance may have led Tyler to believe.

Once the song is over, Tyler glances at the clock on the wall at the back of the room. "Looks like our time is just about over," he says as he turns and walks to the stereo.

Castiel clears his throat. "Thank you very much for the, uh. _Session_."

"Heh, no problem," Tyler snorts. He steps toward the door to leave, but turns back to face Castiel. "Uh, just so you know, there's a bathroom two doors down and on the left. Just so uh…" he waves a hand in the direction of Castiel's tented pants, glancing down at his crotch with a smirk "…you don't have to walk across the club to get to the other bathroom to take care of yourself. Just FYI."

"Oh. I…thank you for the information," Castiel replies.

"You're welcome. And hey," Tyler looks down at the floor, biting his lip before glancing back up to meet Castiel's stare, "I uh, hope to see you again soon. If you want, I mean."

The man shrugs and smiles quickly at Castiel before turning to open the door and step out of the room. Castiel stares after him, wondering if that was still part of his routine or if he was glimpsing a peek of what's underneath the facade. Tyler seems so cocky one minute, vulnerable and unsure the next. Castiel sighs to himself as he realizes this recon mission brought up more questions than answers for him, then sighs even harder as he realizes he needs to admit to himself that this was hardly a recon mission as much as it was an excuse to get closer to Tyler Page, pure and simple.

"Hey, Constantine. You gonna shoot your wad and get out of here or what? You ain't the only person needing to get their rocks off tonight," Gordon says from the doorway.

Castiel looks over at the bouncer with disgust. Well, one good thing, at least. The appearance of Gordon has made it unnecessary to go "take care of himself" in the bathroom, now.

 

 

***************************

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
Dean Winchester is having a shitty, no-good kind of day, but he supposes that's par for the course for his life.

It begins with oversleeping by half an hour, as he'd forgotten to set his alarm before dropping into bed at 4am the night before. He'd had a horrible night at the club, bad tippers and a beer-bellied redneck closet-case dude who got so handsy in the VIP room that he'd had to yell for Gordon to come in and haul the asshole out. Dean always hates having to call for Gordon, much preferring to take care of douchebags himself, but it's not so easy to do that when all you're wearing is a g-string with half your junk hanging out.

Once he cracks his sleep-crusty eyes open and notices it's five minutes before he's supposed to be at the garage, Dean jumps out of bed, cussing to himself as he struggles to pull on jeans, a t-shirt, and boots all at the same time. He passes on shaving and brushing his teeth, pausing to squeeze some toothpaste in his mouth to slosh around and freshen his breath as he's running out the door.

Pouring rain greets him when he steps out of his apartment, and as he's running to his car he manages to step in not one but three giant puddles, soaking his boots and pants legs almost up to the knees. He slams the door of his sad little Ford Escort, jamming the key into the ignition and turning it aggressively, eyes going wide as nothing happens. He tries again and again, squeezes a dry wheeze out of the car on the last try, but it still fails to start.

"Fuck," Dean barks up at his own reflection in the rearview mirror, before pounding his forehead against the steering wheel.

He opens the car door and steps back out onto the street, spares a look at his duplex, and considers going back inside and calling in sick for the day, crawling back under the covers and forgetting any of the past five minutes ever happened. But he needs the money, and he needs to not piss his boss off, so instead he begins the two-mile jog to the garage, wishing like hell the rain would stop or lessen or fucking warm up a little until he at least makes it to work.

About twenty minutes later, he arrives at the garage, soaked to the bone and shivering. He bypasses the office and walks straight into the garage through the open roll-up door, ignoring the looks the two other mechanics shoot him as he steps into the grimy bathroom. He uses paper towels to dry himself off the best he can, but the cheap material only manages to break off into tiny pieces, so Dean has to spend another couple minutes trying to pick out tiny balls of paper stuck in his hair. He gives up as he realizes he's only making it worse, pulls open the bathroom door and is immediately faced with his boss, standing just outside the door, arms folded across his chest.

"What the hell happened to you, boy? You look like Death done paid you a visit and found you lacking."

Dean swipes a hand across his face. "Bobby, I'm sorry, I overslept and then my car wouldn't start so I had to run here in the rain, and I'll work through lunch to make it up to you, I promise."

The older man rolls his eyes and scoffs, leaning back against the car behind him. "Your car wouldn't start? Did you happen to think, oh gee, I work for a mechanic, maybe he can come pick me up in his tow truck and tow my car in?"

"Uhhh… no?" Dean mutters, wondering if Bobby ever regrets hiring him on, given how stupid he makes himself look almost every single shift.

Bobby sighs. "I'll send Terry over to your place to get it before lunch. What's wrong with it this time?"

Shaking his head, Dean replies, "I don't know. I just put a new battery in a few months ago, so it shouldn't be that."

"Well, we'll git her in here and take a look at her, I guess." Bobby pauses to give Dean a once-over, and Dean fidgets under the man's scrutiny. "You look like about five different kinds of horse shit, son. When's the last time you had a decent night of sleep?"

Dean shrugs, doing his best not to make eye contact. He's not used to people asking how he's doing, and no matter how many times Bobby seems to take an interest he can't quite figure out how to respond. He's always eager to please others, and he knows Bobby won't be happy if he tells him the truth, that no, he's not getting much sleep, and yes, he's only just barely managing to hold it together on most days. But at the same time, he knows Bobby won't tolerate lying.

"I dunno. It wasn't last night, I know that much." He glances up quickly before staring back down at his feet. He wants to walk away, get started on work for the morning, but out of respect he waits to be dismissed. He can feel Bobby's stare fixed on him still, wonders if he didn't say the right thing, but doesn't offer up anything else.

"Have you had breakfast yet?"

Dean shakes his head in the negative.

"Well, as a matter of fact, neither have I," the old man says. "And I'm in the mood for a Mickey D's artery buster, so what say you and me make a run for it while these idjits stand around with their thumbs up their asses?"

Dean _is_ hungry; in fact, he's starving, having not eaten since lunch yesterday. But he's not so sure he wants to go with Bobby, sit across the table from him and let him watch him and list all the things he's doing wrong with his job and his life. Bobby's never done that to him in the several years that he's worked for him, but Dean learned early in life that everyone's just waiting to tell him how much of a waste of space and fuckup he really is. Just because Bobby's never had opportunity to do so yet doesn't mean he won't.

He meets Bobby's gaze and nods anyway. "Yeah, sure, I guess I could do with some breakfast." He tenses when Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder but relaxes somewhat as he feels Bobby's fingers squeeze in reassurance. The old man leads the way to the back door and to his beat-up pickup parked under a carport out back.

As they climb up into the truck, Bobby remarks gruffly, "I wish you'd let me help you start rebuilding that Impala of yours. You keep makin' her sit there all tore up and not fixin' her, it's a damn shame waste of space."

"You know I can't afford it right now. I can't afford the parts and I can't afford to spend the time on it," Dean says, staring out the passenger window.

"That's what I'm saying, Dean," Bobby tells him, gentler now "Let me help you pay for it. You can pay me back over time. Hell, we take us some before and after pictures and the good advertising alone will help pay for it. This'll be a good way to finally get a foot into the restoration business."

Dean looks over at Bobby, and he can feel the surprise etched on his face. He wasn't expecting Bobby to offer to help pay for it, even if it's just to loan him the money. Bobby has done so much for him already, and Dean feels he'll never be able to repay him for the kindnesses he's bestowed. He's torn between feeling so grateful and just damn happy to have someone reaching out to him like this, and suspicious, not wanting to allow himself to trust it. The one thing he's learned over the years is to never trust anyone. No one but Sammy.

But Bobby has never been anything but open with Dean, never anything but fair. And Dean has always tried to give Bobby the respect he deserves. What the old man doesn't know, though, is that Dean has reasons other than money and time for not wanting to get started on restoring the Impala. There's just so many memories there, memories that he's not ready to face right now. He can't afford to lose his shit, not now, when he's finally starting to get his shit together.

He gives Bobby the side eye, reaching to fasten his seat belt. "Yeah, I'll think about it. Thanks."

Bobby sighs and turns the key in the ignition. "Yeah, I'm sure you will," he snorts.

 

***************************

 

Breakfast with Bobby is thankfully lacking in heart-to-heart talks, Bobby choosing instead to discuss what tasks they have on the docket for the day. Once they get back to the shop, Dean immerses himself in work, taking comfort in feeling needed and good at something.

The rest of the day passes by quickly, and Dean is surprised to find that it's five o'clock already. He hops into the driver's seat of the ancient Corolla that Bobby insisted on lending him until they can get his clunker up and running. After rushing home, taking a shower, a quick nap, and scarfing down a sandwich for supper, Dean gets back into his car to drive into the club.

It's Friday night, what's typically one of the busiest nights of the week for the club, and Dean starts to get the usual jitters he gets before each shift. He's only been doing this for a few short months, and he's still having trouble getting used to it. He's definitely no stranger to people admiring his looks; he learned early on to use it to his advantage. But it's one thing to flirt to get what he wants from someone, and a totally different ball game to take your clothes off for money. There's no subterfuge anymore, no more pretending that this isn't what it really is. It's definitely better than whoring himself out, but he still is hesitant to mention to any of his coworkers at the garage what his second job is.

Thing about it though is that Dean is good at this job. Scratch that, he's fuckin' _fantastic_ at this job. He's not the best dancer, not by a long shot. But he realized early on that what he lacks in dance skills can be hidden with cockiness and attitude. All this is, is him playing a part, pretending to be whatever character of whatever costume he's wearing that night. And he's spent the better part of the last ten years perfecting his skill at playing the part, trying his damnedest to be whatever the hell it is people need him to be.

After dressing up in a Navy officer's uniform, he sits back on the couch in the dressing room, relaxing with eyes closed as he waits for his turn to go up on stage. He's just about to fall asleep when he hears the beginnings of a Kansas song blaring from his duffel bag in his locker. He jumps up and trots over to the row of lockers, pulling his cell phone out of the bag. He smiles when he sees the caller ID.

"Hey, Sammy! How's it goin', assmunch?"

"Ew, Dean, that's disgusting."

Dean chuckles as he hears Sam sigh across the phone. He loves grossing his little brother out, especially given how easy it is to do. "So, what's up, big man?" he continues. "I didn't plan on hearing from you until the morning. What time are we meeting up? Please don't say 6am again, I love you dude, but I don't 6am-love you."

There's staticky silence for several seconds before Sam mumbles, "Dean, that's why I'm calling. I can't meet up with you tomorrow."

Dean sits down, not speaking until he can get his voice under control. "Why not?" he finally manages to croak.

"Because stupid Shirley wants to go visit her stupid cousin in stupid Ellsworth, and she's gonna spend the night there, so I have to go with her."

"What?!" Dean explodes before he can help himself. "What about _your_ family, huh? Is you getting to see your brother not as important as that fucking bitch getting to see her asshole cousin?!"

"…Dean, calm down. I'm pissed too, you know, and—"

"You could spend the night with me. And she could come by and pick you up as soon as she got back into town."

Sam sighs. "You know that's against the rules. I can't. I don't wanna get into any trouble, and I know Shirley doesn't want to risk messing up her precious foster care allowance, so there's no way she'd let me."

"Dammit, Sammy." Dean punches the locker, his knuckles splitting open and bleeding. He stares at the tiny droplets of blood making their way from the cut across his skin, and absurdly wonders if the audience would find it sexy to have their dancer bleeding on stage.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I was so scared to tell you because I didn't want to make you sad and all, and I'm so pissed that Shirley always picks the one day a week that I look forward to do something that'll ruin everything."

Dean's heart breaks a little deeper as he listens to his brother's voice crack, the poor kid obviously just as upset as he is. And here Dean is being so fucking selfish, thinking about how much this hurts _him_ , when Sammy is sitting there feeling the brunt of it all.

He reins back his irritation, tries not to let his brother hear how his voice is wavering. "Hey, Sammy hey, it's gonna be okay, alright?" he soothes. "This sucks, but we'll get to see each other next Saturday, yeah? Maybe you can use the extra time to try to learn not to suck so much at shootin' hoops, give me a run for my money for a change."

"Shut up! I totally almost beat you last week," Sam protests, and Dean smiles at the indignation in his voice.

"So uh, how's school going?" he broaches. "Made any teachers cry lately?"

Sam huffs at him. "Dean, I never made Ms. Ainsworth cry, but even if I did she totally deserved it. She embarrassed herself for insisting that the CDC would have a zombie outbreak under control within a week, I mean, it's obvious that the CDC's ways of communicating with the public are outdated and naive, at best."

"Dude, you do realize that zombies aren't real, right?"

"Yeah, you say that now, but we'll see who you'll be running to screaming like a Bieber fan when the zombie shit starts hitting the fan."

Dean leans back and laughs. "Hahaha, and _ew_ , when did you start talking like me?"

"Guess it's only a matter of time before some of your grosser characteristics start rubbing off on me," Sam chuckles.

"Yeah, too bad my good looks can't rub off on you, too."

"Bite me."

"No way, you might think I'm a zombie and chop my head off, you freak."

Dean smirks as he imagines the bitchface Sam must be sporting, and he stares at the ceiling as he listens to his brother recount the happenings of this week in school, wishing like hell they could be talking face to face.

 

***************************

 

Once Dean is finished with his routine on stage, he makes his way back to the dressing room to relax for a few minutes before he starts with the private dances. A part of him really wishes he had no VIP customers tonight. It's been a rough day, and the phone call with Sam has left him emotionally drained and moody. The last thing he wants is to put on a smile and dance and try to be somebody's fantasy, letting them paw and drool over him, while deep down he just wants to go home, chug down a six pack and brood himself to sleep.

The one good thing about tonight is that Gordon called in sick, which means Dean doesn't have to deal with the man's smug-ass attitude and not-so-subtle hints at calling Dean a whore. If he didn't have to worry about losing his job, he'd have punched that shit-eating grin off the dude's face long ago. In his place is Ash, a weedy, weird little guy sporting a mullet and an attitude straight out of _Dazed and Confused_. Despite himself, Dean kinda likes the dopehead, especially when he starts going on one of his conspiracy theory rants. Dean never knew there were people out there who thought the government could control the weather until he sat down and listened to one of Ash's tangents a few weeks ago.

Ash stumbles into the dressing room a half hour after Dean settles in to give him and the three other dancers doing VIP tonight a lowdown of the clientele for the evening. Dean snorts as Casey bitches to one of the waitresses on break about one of her regulars asking her to call him "Big Daddy," slits one eye open as Ash calls out to him.

"Mr. Tyler Page, you've got three customers on tap for you this evening. The first is a lovely young blonde lady who claims she's wanting to find a dancer for her friend's bachelorette party—"

"They always are," Casey pipes in from her corner.

"—the second is your monthly visit from Kevin, your corn-fed, bible-thumpin' admirer wanting you to remind him of his sinful ways so he can jack off and slink back home in shame again—"

"They always do," Casey says, and Dean spares a moment to throw a pen at her, smiling as she laughs and dodges it.

"—and the third is some dude I haven't seen before, wearing a Columbo trench coat and intense as hell."

"Oh!" Ava exclaims. "I bet that's the guy that's always sitting in Chuck's section. He freaks me out. One time, I was working Chuck's section because I got here late, and I came over to his table and introduced myself and he just stared at me then said‘You're not Chuck' and I was all‘uh, no, I'm _Ava_ ,' and he was all,‘Chuck will be my server' and his face was all stony and shit and then he wouldn't even look at me, so I was like, _fuck you dude_ , except I didn't say that because I didn't want him bitching to Crowley about me, so then I got Chuck to take over the table. What. A. Weirdo."

Dean scrubs his face with his hands as he listens to the ditsy girl run off at the mouth. Once she pauses to take a breath he butts in. "You know, the dude's not so bad. He's just got a little Rain Man in him, that's all."

"Uh-oh, Deano, sounds like you've got yourself a little crush on Mr. Stiffy," Lilith, one of the other dancers and the creepiest bitch Dean's ever met sneers, as she applies glitter to her chest. "Better watch yourself, make sure Crowley doesn't hear about it, you know how he feels about us bumpin' uglies with the money."

"No, I just don't like people raggin' on my customers, is all," Dean mumbles as he heads into the hall. He takes a deep breath, places his white cap onto his head, and plasters on his sexiest smirk before opening the door to the room and the waiting customer inside.

 

***************************

 

An hour later, Dean has his back to the door when he hears it open, signaling that his last customer of the night, Mr. Tax Accountant dude, is entering.

Dean turns to face him, not having to fake the smile to greet the man, but what greets him back makes his eyes go wide with shock before bursting out laughing. "Looks like the rain's started back. That, or we need to get our sprinkler system worked on in the club."

The man scowls at him before moving to sit down in the chair in front of him, dropping his drenched coat on the floor. "The meteorologists claimed that the rain had passed, therefore I didn't bother to bring an umbrella with me. And since the parking situation here is less than to be desired, I was forced to park three blocks away. Unfortunately, I realized half an hour ago that I left my wallet in my car, so I had to run back out into the rain to retrieve it."

Dean tries his best to stop smiling, but he just can't. The worst of the water seems to have been wrung out of trench coat's clothes while he waited, but his dress shirt is still sticking to his chest and arms in odd places. Dean had never noticed how well built the guy was before, but now the coat is gone the cotton shirt is clinging in all the right places, making his broad shoulders and chest, and long, lean arms more obvious. The way his pants are clinging damply to his thighs suggests that they're muscular and ripped, as well. So maybe not the typical geeky tax accountant, then.

The man's hair is plastered to his forehead, giving him the appearance of a drowned kitten, especially with those startlingly blue eyes staring up at Dean in dismay. Quite frankly, he makes an adorable picture, and Dean decides to give up trying to wipe the goofy smile off his face. He can't help it, the dude just brings it out of him.

As he's staring up at Dean, the man narrows his eyes and tilts his head. "Why are you smiling at me like that?"

"Because I think I must have looked a lot like you this morning," Dean tells him, and he chuckles ruefully at the memory of his own black mood after his soaking. "I got caught out in a downpour too, and had to run two miles to work in it."

He steps over to the cabinets lining the wall behind him, reaching inside one to pull out a towel. He takes the few steps back to the man, and is about to hand the towel to him, but at the last second he raises it to the man's head. He feels the man go very still as he begins to rub the towel over his head, drying what's left of the rainwater out of his hair. He massages his scalp for several minutes before pulling the towel back over his forehead. He meets the man's gaze, and they stare at one another for several long seconds before Dean pulls the towel all the way off his head, running his fingers back through his hair to pull his bangs off his forehead. He lets his thumb make one last slow swipe across the man's brow before clearing his throat and turning away.

"So uh, what kind of dance are you in the mood for tonight?" He kicks himself as he hears his voice shake a bit, hoping the man didn't notice. He is way too tired to be doing this shit tonight, he's letting every little thing get to him.

When he's greeted with silence, he looks over his shoulder to see the man opening and closing his mouth, trying to say something but not quite able. "Come on, dude, spit it out, there's no shame here," Dean smirks.

"I, uh, can we just…talk?" the man says, his eyes focused on the floor. "I've had a very trying day, and I have no one else to talk to really, and to be perfectly honest I'm not really in the mood for something fake tonight.".

Dean watches him for a second or two and truthfully, he isn't quite sure what to make of that request. But there's just something about this guy, and Dean exhales slowly as he comes to a decision, turns to walk across the room, and grab a stacking chair that was leaning against the wall. He unfolds it and sets it in front of the man, straddling it so he can lean his arms against the back. "Well, if we're gonna bare our souls here, I think I should at least know your name first."

The man raises his eyes, meeting Dean's gaze. "My name is Castiel."

Dean can feel his eyes widen. "Castiel? What kind of name is that?"

A small smile plays across Castiel's lips. "It's the name of an angel…the angel of Thursday, the day I was born on. My parents, or rather, my mother, was very interested in angels, and she named all her children after them."

"All?" Dean fishes "You got a big family?"

The man – Castiel, Dean corrects himself – nods. "There's three others, besides myself – Michael, he's the eldest, then Anael, my sister, but we usually call her Anna, and Gabriel. I'm the youngest."

"So, if you've got three brothers and sisters, how is it that you don't have anyone to talk to?" Dean wonders. "I've got a little brother, and I don't like unloading _too_ much on him since he's younger and I'm supposed to take care of him and shit, but still, I know he's there if I need to talk."

Castiel takes a deep breath. "I'm not close with Michael at all. Anna lives in an artist's commune in South America somewhere, last I heard – I forget where. We haven't spoken in years. And Gabriel is currently in Sweden, I believe, on business. He and I are fairly close, but he's away so often that we only get to see each other a few times a year."

"So why didn't you call him? I imagine a fancy businessman would have a pretty decent cell phone plan," Dean jokes.

Castiel grimaces. "Because he's partly the reason why my day was so horrible."

Dean raises his eyebrows at that news. "Ah, alrighty then. Hit me with it."

"I'm sorry?" Castiel stares at him with confusion written across his face.

"Fill me in on why your day was so shitty," Dean smiles encouragingly.

"Oh. Well, it began with a phone call from my editor. She gave me some rather bad news. I was hoping my publisher would give me six months to begin writing the next book in my series—"

"You're a writer?" Dean interjects, and he doesn't even care that he sounds a little awestruck. "Man. That is something."

Castiel nods and keeps going, "so that I could work on another idea that I've had inspiration for. But after meeting with her supervisor, they've agreed to only give me three months. After that, if I fail to turn in chapters for my series I'll be sued for breach of contract."

Dean props his chin on his forearm. "So, what's this book series about? The one you're sick of writing?"

"I'm not sick of writing it per se," Castiel says. "I just…I feel I'm not going in the right direction with it. It feels like I'm forcing it."

He pauses, glance moving across the room, deep in thought. "The series is about the angels, fighting a war in Heaven, a war between Heaven and Hell. It's inspired by my mother's love of angel mythology. I would read about them, the angels…I began making up stories of my own for them, gave them each their own personalities and desires, their own whims, and weaknesses, and needs. It was a hobby really."

"But you took your hobby and turned it into a career," Dean echoes him, and for a second he drifts back to Bobby's kindly face lecturing him about the Impala. "That's pretty amazing."

Castiel colors self-consciously. "In college, I started writing the stories down. I spent all my free time doing it instead of going to parties and making friends. They were my friends, I suppose, and writing the stories down gave them life and purpose." He stops, gives Dean a shy grin. "You don't really want to hear all this."

Dean shakes his head, insistent. "No, I do. I do. How did you turn it into proper writing? Books?"

After a sloppy little half-shrug, Castiel says, "I thought – why not send out a manuscript? And fifteen publishers later I had a book deal." He grimaces. "Or I sold my soul to the devil, depending on your point of view. In the current installment I'm supposed to be writing, the angels' war has made its way to Earth, wreaking havoc upon the planet."

Dean's mind is filled for a moment with visions of armor-clad, sword-wielding angels, wings spread out. "Warriors of God," he breathes. "Huh. Doesn't sound like Michael Landon, that's for sure. Sounds kinda cool, actually. Why don't you feel inspired anymore?"

Castiel throws up his hands. "Because I don't care about the angels any more. They're cold, soulless, and heartless beings, without remorse for the carnage they are bringing upon the humans. How am I supposed to write a compelling story when I'm disgusted by my heroes?" Castiel's eyebrows knit together in frustration and worry.

They sit in silence for many minutes, Dean chewing on his lip as he watches the man in front of him. "So what if you change it up, then?" he suggests.

Castiel looks at him, head tilted again. "What do you mean?"

"You said they don't give a shit about the humans, right? So what if they _do_ give a shit? Or what if, say, one of them meets a human and becomes friends with 'em. Learns that hey, humans ain't so bad, maybe we shouldn't destroy their world, or something?"

He spares a glance at Castiel to see if he's looking at him like an idiot, but instead the man seems intrigued. "Go on," he says.

"Well, what if that one angel goes against all the other angels to try and stop 'em and save the world? That'd be kinda badass, wouldn't it? And that way, it wouldn't just be about Heaven and Hell. It'd be about the battle _against_ Heaven and Hell to save the humans."

Dean shrugs, looking to Castiel to see if he approves or if he thinks Dean is full of shit. The look on the other man's face is one of astonishment.

"I…Tyler, that's brilliant. I, I don't know what to say. In the span of five minutes I think you've broken through a writer's block that has plagued me for months." He leans forward, plants his elbows on his knees, and his eyes glow brightly. "Would you mind if I used your idea? I would credit you of course, and, I don't know how to go about compensation for it, but I would definitely—"

Dean waves it off. "Nah, don't worry about it. If the idea works for you great, if it doesn't, it doesn't. It wasn't really my idea, I was just showing you a different way to look at it…" His voice fades a little, because he's feeling embarrassed by how intensely Castiel is staring at him, which is fucking ridiculous given his job and the reason he's in this room right now. But he's not used to someone looking at him like he's got something important to say, like his thoughts are worth hearing. It leaves him feeling nervous and like he's under a microscope way more than being on stage naked does.

"Alright, then. But you really have no idea how much you've helped me." The sincerity behind the words leaves Dean feeling a little awkward, so he changes the subject as quickly as he can.

"So, uh, what else happened to make your day so horrible?"

Castiel's face falls, and he leans back into his chair, looking away. "Oh. My father called me, and we fought."

Dean winces in sympathy. "That sucks. But hey, sons fight with their dads all the time, right?"

"It was the first time we'd spoken to each other in almost six years."

Whistling, Dean says, "Whoa dude, that's rough. What was the fight about?"

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "He was berating me for not joining the family business. My family has been in international finance since many years before I was born. He doesn't approve of my career or my lifestyle."

"Your lifestyle? What, that you're into dudes?" Dean scoffs.

"No. That I, uh – I don't leave my home very much." Dean watches as Castiel glances at him out of the corner of his eye, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Why would that bug him?" he inquires. "Your social life is your own business, isn't—"

"That first night I was here at the club was the first time in over six months that I left my home."

Dean goggles at Castiel, a little unsure of what to say next. Thankfully, Ash chooses that moment to pop his head inside the door. "Hey, uh, _Tyler_ , there ain't no more customers for the night, so you gonna want me to stick around here? I mean I don't mind if you need me, 'cept there's this card game about to start up in back, and I got this new trick I wanna try on Victor to piss him off and—"

"Yeah, Ash, you can go ahead and take off. We're fine in here. Have a good one, man."

"Yeah, yeah, you too, compadre." Ash salutes Dean and turns to leave, slamming the door behind him.

Dean glances back at Castiel, but the man seems determined to look at everything but him. "So uh, six months, huh? Does that qualify as…wait what's the term? Aggrophobia?"

Castiel slumps a little more. "Agoraphobia, actually. And yes, it does qualify as that, I suppose, but really, for me at least, it's just a symptom of a bigger issue."

Dean waits to see if the man is going to continue, but when it doesn't seem likely he prompts him for more. "And what bigger issue would that be?"

Castiel sits still, biting his lower lip, hands folded between his thighs as if they need warmth. Dean realizes that the man probably is cold, considering that his clothes must still be quite damp from the rain, but he stops himself from offering to find him a blanket. He can tell Castiel is working through something in his head, and he doesn't want to break the silence for fear of interrupting whatever it is.

He begins to think the man isn't planning on answering him when he hears a whisper, just barely above the din of the loud music down the hall.

"When I was ten years old, my mother took me out to see a movie. It was my birthday, and she wanted it to be just the two of us…I was always the odd one out, the others, they were all so boisterous and outgoing, and I was always so quiet and much rather wanted to be inside and reading. It was easy for me to get overlooked and forgotten. So she wanted it to be special for me, she said."

He continues to stare at the floor, and Dean inches his chair forward a tiny bit so that he can hear the other man better.

"It was past my bedtime when we got out. It was a treat, you see, the late night. It was dark. We were walking back to the car…it was two streets over. And it was quiet, it was an old movie, hardly anyone was at the theater. The Wizard of Oz. It was our favorite." Castiel's tone is dull and mechanical, and he blinks so slowly it seems like he's calm but Dean can see that the hands he has on his thighs are rigid, the knuckles popping up as he keeps talking. "There were two men, we didn't think anything of it. But one of them had a gun and he shouted at us, demanded my mother's purse. She handed it to them quickly, she didn't struggle or scream at all. But when the man pointed the gun at me and asked if I had a wallet, she panicked. She started shouting, she pulled me back behind her. I never heard her shout before, she never shouted at us, never. And the gun went off. I don't even think he meant to shoot anyone, but I guess we'll never know for sure."

Dean remains completely still, holding his breath as Castiel continues, his voice still absent, and without any inflection.

"She died there. My mother died there, in my arms. It didn't take long. I tried, so hard, to make the blood stop flowing. There was just so much of it. It was too much. I never knew how much there was. Seven percent of the body, five to eight pints in a woman. A woman like my mom."

Dean wants to get up, run out of the room, stop listening to these words. It's a horrifying story, and hits too close to home, but of course, Castiel doesn't know that. Dean rubs his eyes and tries to get a grip. Cas isn't even crying as he's reciting the story, he's just staring at the floor, a numbed look on his face.

"I developed post traumatic stress disorder afterwards. My father should have put me in therapy, everyone told him to…the doctor, our extended family, even his friends. But he wouldn't listen. He said head shrinks are for the weak, and that all I needed was some toughening up. He sent me off to boarding school to do that, as well as to get me out of the way so that he didn't have to deal with me himself anymore, I'm sure. A part of me always assumed that he blamed me for what happened, which isn't a surprise. How could I be surprised when I always blamed myself?"

A wry smile twists across his face. "I suppose boarding school _did_ toughen me up. It taught me how to ignore the ridicule and taunting by my fellow classmates, how to withstand their cruelty. It taught me not to be ashamed to be different, and taught me how to put on a brave front and pretend nothing was wrong even while I felt like I was dying inside."

Dean hears himself whisper, "You still feel that way."

Castiel looks up at him, nods just slightly. "The older I got, the more difficult it became to leave home. No matter if home was a dorm room or my family home, each day became a struggle to walk out the door. I found the only way to make it easier on myself was to plan every step of the way while I was out, plan for every possible occurrence. If I knew how to react to different stimuli and circumstances, then nothing could take me by surprise, nothing could happen that was out of my control. But even with planning, each year became more and more difficult. I didn't understand, then, what was wrong with me, but of course I do now, since I've received therapy as an adult. My PTSD was finally gaining control of my actions, finally taking over my life and forcing me to deal with it."

Castiel laughs bitterly as he continues. "My father, through it all, still refused to acknowledge it, and kept insisting that I join the family business. I could have never followed in my father's footsteps. That path held nothing but misery for me. I pleaded with him to let me forge my own life, but he threatened to cut me off from my trust fund if I didn't go to college. I relented, even went so far as to major in International Finance, with a minor in Creative Writing. He promised me that if I stayed in college, maintained a high GPA and got my degree, he would allow me to do whatever I wanted with my life, and would never cut me off from my trust fund. I knew that he held all the straws; there was no way I could have survived on my own, at that point. I could have never found a job to support myself in my mental and emotional condition."

Dean watches, transfixed as Castiel's mouth forms a sly smile. "But my father didn't say _what_ college I had to attend, or even that I had to _attend_. After my freshman year I transferred to an online college, and within two more years I received my Bachelor's degree, with honors. My father was furious, but he agreed to keep his promise. And that was the last I'd spoken to him."

"Until today."

Castiel huffs. "Yes, until today. He called me because my brother, Gabriel, informed him that I'd ventured out of my home a few times over the past few weeks. My father jumped at the chance to call and congratulate me, and then went on to try to persuade me to join him and my brother, Michael, at the company. When I refused, and reminded him that I have a successful career already, he became angry with me once again." Castiel shrugs, "I suppose it's a dance we're destined to repeat over and over again. But what upset me the most was what he said before I hung up on him. He said if my mother were alive today, she'd be disappointed in me, in how afraid I am of life."

Castiel closes his eyes. The room is silent, the noise from the club down the hall having lessened to a quiet buzz in the background.

"That's bullshit," Dean spits out, his sudden words making Cas jump and open his eyes to stare at him. "It sounds to me like the only person she'd be disappointed in is your fucking douchebag dad."

Dean is shocked by the vehemence behind his own words, but to hear what kind of horrible experiences this dude has been through and to see how damaged he's been by it all, and to find out what a shit his dad has been to him through all of it, just makes him see red and want to punch the shit out of somebody.

"Your dad should have been there for you, Cas. You were his responsibility. Or fuck responsibility, you were his _child_. He should've done whatever it took to make you feel better and to make you realize it wasn't your fault. A lot of times, shit happens to good people, but a ten year old can't be expected to understand that." He finds that he's stabbing the air to ram his point home. "Your dad should have, and if he wasn't there propping up his kid through all that, that's on him, not you. You shouldn't feel guilty about it."

Castiel continues to stare at him, his mouth slightly open and eyes unblinking. Dean has an almost overwhelming urge to tip his chair forward just enough to kiss the man, see how shocked he'd look then, but it's not allowed, and Dean knows better than to open up that can of worms. "You're a writer, and it sounds like you're a decent one at that," he declares instead. "Now I didn't know your mom, but I think pretty much all moms would be proud of their kid being successful at something they love. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Cas. You're doing the best you can, and that's all anybody can ask of themselves. But this thing with your dad…maybe you need to cut that loose."

Dean is all too aware of how hilarious it is for him to be giving advice like this to someone else. This kind of advice is shit that he's had Bobby and various state counselors feeding him for he doesn't even know how long. He knows how easy it is to dish it out, but it's not so easy to swallow it down himself. "Or, I don't know," he qualifies clumsily. "It's not like I'm a head shrink, but…end of the day, it's up to you how much you let the guy get to you. Isn't it?"

Their eyes lock for several moments before Castiel smiles slightly and looks away. They both seem comfortable to sit in a companionable silence for a while then, so long that Dean rests his chin on his arm and closes his eyes. It's been a while since he's been with someone who he's relaxed enough with to let his guard down like that, especially someone he's just met.

He slowly opens his eyes when he hears a yawn erupt from Castiel. The man is looking at him sheepishly. "I suppose I should be leaving for home."

"Yeah, I think it's about that time for me, too," Dean says.

Castiel stands abruptly, leaving Dean almost with a feeling of whiplash as he watches the man move. He holds his hand in front of him awkwardly, and it takes Dean a second to realize that he's offering a handshake. "I doubt that I could find the words to adequately express how much comfort unburdening myself to you has brought me this evening. But I do appreciate you listening to me."

Dean can feel his face break into a grin as he reaches forward, grasping the man's hand between his own. "Don't mention it, Cas. This room provides a type of therapy, too, you know. We just happened to go with the more conventional kind tonight."

They hold the handshake for several seconds too long, staring at each other once again. As Castiel begins to pull his hand away, he glances down, catching sight of the abrasions on Dean's knuckles from his earlier run-in with the locker. "What happened to your hand?" he asks, thumb grazing lightly across the knuckle, making the hairs stand up along the back of Dean's neck from the sensation.

Dean chuckles and pulls his hand away, trying to cover up the fact that he fucking shivered just from the other man's touch. "Oh, that's a story for another time. But if it makes you feel any better, my day was pretty shitty, too." He smiles and stands up, starts walking Castiel to the door.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like to talk about it, as well?" Castiel asks.

After a quick headshake, Dean says, "Nah. To be honest, I think sitting down and relaxing and listening to you helped make me feel better, too. So in a way, you already helped." He pulls the door open, turns to say his final goodbye to the man.

Castiel is gazing at him with those baby blues. "Well, again, thank you very much. I feel as if a substantial weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I hope the rest of your night fares better, Tyler."

Dean spares a moment to feel guilty for the fake name, but he doesn't let himself dwell on it. Rules are rules. "Yeah, you too, Cas. Goodnight." He rubs the man's back as he walks through the doorway, turning to watch him walk down the hall.

As he closes the door behind him and begins to straighten up the room so he can go home, he realizes that the funny thing is, he actually does feel a little better.

 

***************************


	4. Chapter 4

  
The following week, Castiel finds himself busy with not one but two potential books to write, Tyler's suggestions having opened the floodgates in his brain, demolishing the wall that has been blocking him for months far more effectively than any bulldozer could have.

Once he has soothed Pamela's panic over the change in direction for the Angel series, he begins outlining the next book in earnest. But as excited as he is about it, his mind still can't help but wander to potential topics for his other book. He wants to step out of his comfort zone, give this story the warmth and sincerity he believes it deserves. He wants to take a more personal perspective, but he's not quite sure how to go about it.

He wants to find out more about Tyler, discover how and why he got into this business, but he doesn't want to pry. Just because the man listened to Castiel's problems and life story doesn't mean he'd be willing to share the same. Castiel doesn't want to make this a story about Tyler, but to deny how much of an influence the man and his life have on it would be denying the whole point of the story. It will be a fine line between writing a truthful, sincere, and compelling tale that's inspired by Tyler, but not invading the man's rights and privacy by making the story actually _about_ him.

Castiel smiles as he remembers how passionate Tyler was, insisting that Castiel's father was a "douchebag." Hearing such a fresh and frank perspective on his relationship with his father made Castiel feel as if a tiny piece in the puzzle of his life had slotted into place.

He pulls open his desk drawer, roots about for the photograph he knows is in there, stares into the pale blue eyes of the man in the picture, the man from whom he inherited his own desire for perfection and control, the man whose employees not-so-jokingly refer to as _God_.

"We called you God too," he murmurs as he recalls his father's looming presence in his as well as his siblings' lives, tracking school progress reports and extracurricular activities as if they were employees performing their jobs.

"I can't control you," he continues softly. "I can't make you love me, I can't make you accept me for who I am, and I can't make you forgive me for asking mom to take me to the movies that night." He smiles then, because Tyler was right – what he can control is how he reacts to his father.

"Just because you won't forgive me doesn't mean I can't forgive me," he says. "Because I was just a little boy wanting to spend time with his mom. And I had no way of knowing what would happen, and no way to change it."

The man in the picture continues to glare austerely out through the glass.

Castiel sets it on the desk. "Why don't you watch me be what I want to be instead of what you want me to be," he tells the man.

He leans back in his chair, rolls his shoulders to work out the kinks, ponders that what Tyler said to him really is true, that what goes on in that VIP room really can be a form of therapy. For all its costumes and role-playing and money exchanged, when you lay your desires bare like that you become vulnerable, opening yourself up to self-revelation.

And with that thought, Castiel realizes he just may have come up with his hook for the story.

 

***************************

 

It takes every ounce of will power Castiel has to wait until the following Friday to return to the club. It comes as no small and pleasing bit of surprise to realize that he wants to see Tyler more than he's afraid to venture out in public. He's aware that his feelings for the dancer are most likely becoming too strong for what is, essentially, a business relationship, albeit an unconventional one. This transaction _is_ based on desire and fulfilling one's sexual fantasies, but it is also one based on the exchange of money. It's a fine line that keeps getting more blurred each time he thinks about the other man though.

Once at the club, Castiel waits until Chuck has taken his drink order before approaching Gordon, who's already stationed outside the VIP rooms.

"Looks like someone's an eager beaver this evening," Gordon says, eyeing Castiel up and down.

"Yes, well, I just wanted to go ahead and get this out of the way, given your penchant for taking your time while walking me through your rules," Castiel replies icily.

Gordon narrows his eyes. "Well, I guess now you've reached creeper stalker status you can have the abbreviated version. The dancer's in charge; you touch, you die. How's that for ya?"

"Perfect," Castiel clips back. "I'll return a few minutes after Tyler completes his routine on stage to prevent us from having to be around each other too much. I wouldn't want you to strain a muscle trying to intimidate me."

Castiel can't resist shooting the man a smug glare as he sees the effect of his words before turning and walking back to his table. He doesn't doubt that Gordon isn't used to people not being cowed by his looming, alpha male attitude. It'll do him good to be knocked down a peg or two.

Tyler's routine that evening is that of a businessman, complete with tie and briefcase. Between the tight-fitting button-down white shirt and the wire-rimmed glasses that he tosses away halfway through the routine, Castiel is already half-hard. Tyler has been in his thoughts almost constantly since his last visit; in his thoughts, his dreams, and his fantasies.

Castiel has never understood the term "falling in love." He couldn't grasp exactly what about the process of developing romantic feelings for someone was similar to _falling_. Until now. Now, he gets it. Because he feels he has been falling since the moment he first laid eyes on Tyler. Falling with no sense of where it's taking him, falling without a parachute, without a lifeline, and without any way of finding his way back up.

Every time he sees the other man, he's just a little bit further gone. And the scariest thing of all is that Castiel isn't scared. For the first time in his life, he doesn't know what happens next, and it's exhilarating.

After Tyler's routine, Castiel waits for him in the VIP room, and even though he's excited to see Tyler again, to talk to him and be near him, at this point his nervousness has taken control. He fears it may be awkward after his last visit, and hopes that the strangeness of the events of last week won't bring tension to their meeting tonight.

He takes a seat in the leather chair, leaning back against the cushion, gripping the arms, and attempting to relax. He closes his eyes and begins to count backwards to relieve some of his anxiety, but before he gets to fifteen he hears the door open. He watches as Tyler's eyes roam the room quickly before settling on him.

A warm smile erupts across Tyler's face. "Hey, Cas. I was hoping I'd see you tonight."

Castiel feels the butterflies in his stomach do an especially frantic flutter at this news, and he can't help but smile in return. It may be just something to say to customers to make them more relaxed and keep them coming back, but it warms Castiel's heart all the same. "So I didn't make you uncomfortable last week by burdening you with my troubles?" he ventures.

Tyler huffs, seemingly amused. "Nah. I kinda liked learning more about you. How's things been for you? Did the week get better?"

"Yes, no small thanks to you. My writer's block seems to have dissipated, so I had a very busy week of writing."

Tyler nods as he walks to the stereo to plug in his iPod. "Good. I was kinda wondering how you were doing this week."

Castiel is a bit alarmed at how pleased he is to hear that Tyler was thinking of him, but he puts the thought out of his mind. He's about to thank him once again for his advice last week, but before he can speak Tyler looks back over his shoulder.

"So, uh, am I dancing tonight, or do you wanna talk some more?"

"You can dance, if you don't mind, of course," Castiel replies.

He's relieved that Tyler has broached the subject with ease, but still feels uneasy requesting that they return to what's expected of the _private dance_ experience after their talk last week. He enjoys Tyler's routines, he more than enjoys them, or he wouldn't keep returning. But he's also a little disappointed that they can't have a bonding experience like before, that this will go back to being like any of Tyler's other private dances.

Tyler laughs at that. "Dude, I don't mind, it's what I'm here for. You got anything in particular you wanted to see?" he asks, winking.

Castiel can feel himself blushing, despite the fact that he's not a twelve-year-old girl. "No, just – whatever you prefer will be fine."

Tyler chooses a fast-paced hard rock song, which isn't a surprise to Castiel, given his previous choices in music. Castiel watches him, once again mesmerized not by intricate dance moves but by the spirit and grace behind them. Tyler never loses the connection with Castiel, maintaining eye contact when he can, and when he can't his body is always drawn towards Castiel, as if there's a line between them, binding them together. He rips his pants off quickly, but the song ends before he's able to remove his shirt.

He pads over to his iPod in bare feet, his back to Castiel as he chooses the next song, when Castiel opens his mouth and speaks without thinking.

"Would you, uh, I mean, I think I'd like…"

He lets his words fade into the air between them, watching as Tyler's back tenses and stills, waiting. The man turns around slowly and stares at Castiel, waiting for him to finish.

"I think I'd like a lap dance, if you wouldn't mind. I mean, if you'd like…"

Tyler stares at him for a few seconds longer before a slow smirk spreads across his face. "Why, Cas. I thought you'd never ask."

He turns his back again, and Castiel can hear him clicking through the songs on his iPod while he fidgets in his chair and wonders how the hell he will manage to get through this experience. It's one thing to work up the courage to sit in this room and watch someone dance for you, but another thing entirely to have them in your lap. Castiel isn't a virgin, but he's not experienced, by any means. And it's been years since he's been intimate with someone, so the thought of having this man that's he's fantasized about daily and nightly for weeks mostly naked in his lap is, quite frankly, terrifying.

And he doubts he's ever wanted anything more in his life.

He watches as Tyler settles on a song and turns to face him, catching his eyes and staring at him as he glides towards Castiel. They maintain eye contact as the music starts with a man moaning over the speakers _I can't quit you, babe_ , a slow, seductive crawl of sound thrumming from the speakers, matching Tyler's slow, predatory crawl towards Castiel.

He stops at Castiel's feet, stands between his knees and murmurs, "Scoot down a bit."

Castiel does as he's told, holding onto the arms of the chair, opening his legs wider to make room for Tyler between them. Tyler leans over, placing both hands along the back of the chair, one on each side of Castiel's neck, and slowly slides his body down and along Castiel's as he straddles Castiel's hips. The move is a tantalizing glide, first rubbing Tyler's crotch in Castiel's face, then his hip bone and his stomach, and as he slides his shirt rides up, giving Castiel's lips unexpected access to the heat of Tyler's skin. He doesn't lick, though he thinks he may have made a deal with the devil for the strength to keep from tasting, but everything's so fuzzy at this point he's not sure. All he knows is that he didn't break any rules of the room, because Tyler is still moving, still sliding down until he's settled in Castiel's lap, his ass snug against Castiel's quickly hardening dick.

Tyler rubs his cheek against Castiel's, stubble against stubble in a delicious scrape and burn. He rolls his hips slowly in time with the beat of the song, rubbing his thong-covered dick along Castiel's stomach and cushioning Castiel's erection between his buttcheeks. Castiel thanks God or whoever else is responsible for him remembering to make use of the towel that the club provides, because he fears tonight will be the night where he will most definitely need something to make cleanup easier.

Castiel lays his head back against the couch, eyes closed as Tyler writhes in his lap. He can feel Tyler lean back, and after a few seconds he hears Tyler whisper his name. He opens his eyes to find Tyler staring at him, and watches as the man licks his lips, tongue peeking out to slide across and leave a wet trail behind. A moan escapes Castiel's lips, and he'd be embarrassed except that it made Tyler smile that same warm smile that he's so fond of, and that smile is worth just about any embarrassment the world can come up with.

As they continue to stare at each other, Tyler reaches for his collar and rips his shirt open, snap buttons giving way easily and exposing tan flesh underneath. Castiel's fingers flex, itching to map out the freckles peppering Tyler's skin, to touch the expanse of muscle, to feel those muscles ripple as he slides his hands along Tyler's back, but he grips the chair tighter instead.

Tyler pulls his arms the rest of the way out of the shirt and throws it onto the couch next to them. He bites his lip as he leans forward once again, pressing his bare chest against Castiel. His mouth brushes against Castiel's neck, almost mouthing the juncture between neck and shoulder, sending shivers down Castiel's spine and eliciting another moan from him. "Tyler," he groans. "Oh god, Tyler, yes…"

Tyler presses impossibly closer, his body rolling in waves up and down the length of Castiel's body, hips slowly gyrating with the music. With each pass, the crack of his ass presses harder and tighter against Castiel's cock, and it feels so delicious it almost hurts. Castiel tries not to buck his hips, tries not to lose control, but the longer this keeps up the more difficult it becomes. As Tyler shifts and changes positions, it causes his groin to rub more against Castiel's stomach, and Castiel is shocked to realize that Tyler has an erection, too.

The new position brings Tyler's mouth against Castiel's ear. Hot, wet puffs of air tease along the shell, and every few seconds Castiel can feel Tyler's lips ghosting along his skin. He turns his head, scritching his stubble-burned cheek along Tyler's and bringing his mouth up to Tyler's ear. "Tyler," he whispers wetly. He whispers his name over and over, taking satisfaction in the way Tyler is pressing his erection closer, seemingly desperate for friction against Castiel's body.

Castiel feels Tyler move his hand between them, and looks down to see him pulling his erection from the g-string. His cock is thick and hard, the crown glistening with wetness. Tyler pulls back just enough so he can look Castiel in the eye, gaze dark as he asks, "Is this okay with you?"

Castiel stares at him, brain not quite able to focus on why this is even a question, as his hips buck involuntarily. Tyler closes his eyes and groans, rubbing his ass against Castiel's cock, where it lies still trapped in his pants. "Yes, this is good," Castiel croaks. He bites his lip and watches for Tyler's reaction as he bucks his hips again, this time completely on purpose.

Tyler's eyes roll back and his eyelashes flutter as he squirms to feel Castiel's cock thrust against his crack, And Castiel suddenly feels an alarming hatred for g-strings, wishing with everything he had that that line of fabric was not between the head of his cock and Tyler's rim.

Tyler leans forward as if he's going to kiss Castiel, but instead he stops right before their lips touch. His eyes are open, and he's panting heavily as he rocks his hips back and forth. They stare at each other, breathing in each other's hot, wet exhales. Castiel licks his lips, and Tyler focuses on the movement of Castiel's tongue, whimpering when it slinks back into his mouth.

"Fuck, Cas," he groans.

"Tyler, yes, oh Tyler," Castiel whispers. He watches as Tyler squeezes his eyes shut, and moves to hide his face along Castiel's ear again. Castiel can feel sweat trickling down his neck and along his spine, the proximity of their bodies and their writhing together making it impossibly, unbearably hot. His hands are slippery against the leather of the armrests, yet he keeps gripping them as tightly as he can in a vain attempt to remain in control. The last thing he wants is to do something to break the rules and ruin the moment in this situation.

He moves his mouth to whisper Tyler's name in his ear again, to whisper encouragement and let him know how good it feels, but is surprised when Tyler grunts and pulls away. Castiel stares up. "Did I do something wrong?"

Tyler squeezes his eyes shut again and shakes his head. Castiel watches as he chews on his lip before leaning forward, mouth not even an inch away from Castiel's as he breathes, "Call me Dean."

Castiel knits his eyebrows together in confusion. "What?"

"Call me Dean. It's my real name. I…I need to hear you say it." He closes his eyes then, and presses ever closer against Castiel, sliding his cock along Castiel's waistband. "Please, Cas," he pleads, hot breath sneaking its way into Castiel's open mouth and teasing his tongue.

Castiel waits for Dean to open his eyes before murmuring, voice deep and gravelly, "Dean."

Dean moans, eyes squeezing shut as he gyrates and pushes against Castiel's cock. "Yeah, Cas. Just like that."

"Dean, oh Dean, yes…Dean. _Dean_." Castiel moans the name, over and over, whispering it against Dean's neck as his writhing speeds up and becomes frantic.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean breathes against his neck, and Castiel comes with a choked out cry he barely stifles when he feels Dean's tongue lick along the shell of his ear.

Dean continues rubbing his ass along the length of Castiel's erection, working him through his orgasm. As Castiel's breathing slows down, Dean begins to slow his thrusts against Castiel's stomach, but Castiel leans forward to whisper in his ear, "Don't stop."

Dean grunts, shaking his head no, but he doesn't stop his movements along Castiel's body. Castiel opens his eyes to stare at the man in his lap. Dean has his eyes squeezed shut, his lips parted and wet, and his breath is shallow and hot. Castiel can see the desperate fight for control that Dean seems to be waging with himself, and God help him, he wants to be witness to Dean losing the battle.

Castiel inches forward, just enough for his lips to tease along Dean's ear, and whispers, "Please…come for me, Dean."

Dean cries out, tensing his body and biting at Castiel's shoulder as he releases himself over Castiel's shirt. He continues to thrust weakly for several seconds until he is spent, and he nuzzles his head into the crook of Castiel's neck, turning his face away to stare at the wall as he regains control of his breathing. Castiel's arms twitch, wanting to wrap around the man in his lap and pull him closer, but he minds the rules of the room and keeps his hands to himself.

A couple of minutes later Dean begins to stir, pulling himself away and off of Castiel. Castiel sees him grimace as he looks down at Castiel's shirt, sticky with come, but he doesn't say anything. He steps over to the cabinets, pulling out a towel and throwing it at Castiel as he uses another one to wipe himself off.

"Sorry 'bout the mess, man," Dean says without looking at him.

Castiel uses the towel that was tossed to him to wipe off the stains from his shirt as best he can, before using the towel tucked in his zipper to clear off his own come from his pants. He's completely unsuccessful at hiding either cluster of splotches, and casts his eyes over to where he threw his trench coat. It'll hide the worst of their transgressions, and Castiel smiles to himself as he imagines using this occasion to shut Gabriel up the next time he complains about the "creeper coat."

"So, uh, you should probably be heading on out so I can get ready for the next client," Dean says from across the room.

Castiel can feel his eyebrows spike with surprise. "Oh. Yes, of course," he manages to mumble as he turns for his coat. He's not sure how he'd expected this moment to end, but this abruptness is less than he'd hoped for. He doesn't know what's changed from one moment to the next, but whatever it is, it isn't good, he fears.

He pulls his coat on, watching as Dean buttons up his shirt and avoids making eye contact. Castiel stands still for a moment, hands hanging loose by his sides as he stares at the man in front of him, who was so open to him only moments ago but who is now more closed off than any stranger could be.

So. Maybe it all _was_ just a business transaction again.

"Well, thanks for the lovely, uh, time," Castiel mumbles, and he steels himself for a brush-off, a generic 'come back soon' or some other farewell. He's shocked when Dean steps forward into his personal space, standing mere inches away as he gazes at Castiel, eyes wide and green and unfathomable.

"Don't be a stranger, Cas" Dean murmurs, almost as if he'd read Castiel's mind. He pauses long enough to wink at Castiel, placing his palm on his shoulder and squeezing, before turning away and walking to the door.

Castiel smiles at Dean as he walks by him and out the door, steadfastly ignoring Gordon leaning against the wall opposite the doorway.

Later that night, Castiel realizes he doesn't even remember his journey home. He was too distracted thinking about Dean's eyes and the warm press of his hand along his back as he said goodbye.

 

***************************

 

  



	5. Chapter 5

Dean spends the following morning cutting yards and weed whacking for the landscaping service he does odd jobs for, doing his best to keep busy so as not to freak the fuck out about the night before.

He keeps repeating in his brain all the rules he broke last night, like a goddamn mantra that just gets him more worked up and stressed out instead of relaxing him and making him feel better like a mantra is supposed to do. Told a customer his real name, let himself come, and started crushing on that customer.

Real name. 

Jizz. 

Crush. 

_Namejizzcrushnamejizzcrushnamejizzcrush_ resounds over and over and over again in Dean's head, as he mows lawns and uproots any weeds daring to grow around the shrubbery, sweat etching out paths down his bare back.

How can one person carry around the amount of stupid that Dean encompasses all in his head? He broke three of the club's big rules, all in one night and all with the same customer. He just…couldn't help himself. The way Cas looks at him, like Dean is a puzzle that he's trying to figure out, like he's the most important and interesting person in the world, like he _matters_ …it puts Dean on edge, makes his skin prickle with the need for _something_ , to touch, to hit, to lick, to scream, to fuck. Just, the man makes him feel need and desire like he hasn't felt in a while, if ever, and Dean doesn't fucking understand it or know what to do with it. Castiel makes him want to be better, makes him want to be worthy of that look that Cas gives him, but he has no clue how or why.

He's spent most of his life only caring what others need and finding out how to give it to them. Last night was the first time in forever that his desires took control of his actions. He wanted Castiel, and he needed Castiel to want him back, for who he is – _Dean_ , not Tyler Page. He needed this man to see who he really is, to not be a part of the charade, even if for just a few minutes. He needed to stop pretending to be someone he's not and to feel wanted for himself, no matter what a fuckup and a loser he really is.

And to hear Castiel moan his name, to feel his cock still heavy and thick with desire for _Dean_ and not Tyler Page, it pretty much broke Dean. Never mind that Cas doesn't really know him at all just because he knows his name. It was enough for Dean to be able to pretend long enough that Cas knew what he really was and still didn't give a shit, still wanted him. It was enough for Dean to feel important and special. It was enough for Dean to feel like he could let go and just _be_. 

It was enough.

Which opens up a whole other reason Dean is a little shaken about last night. He's never had feelings like this for another dude. He's messed around with a few guys before, sure. But it wasn't ever because he really wanted to, it was a means to an end, mostly. A couple times he found himself in juvie when he was a teenager, and it's not so easy to get around in there if you don't have friends. So when a supervisor offered to make sure he got left alone if Dean let him suck his dick, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak. 

Once he was a bit older and on his own, he had some months where it was harder than others to find odd jobs here and there to put food in his mouth. So he'd messed around with guys occasionally, if they offered him money for something back. It's not something Dean is proud of, but he doesn't consider himself traumatized by it, either. You do what you gotta do to get by, and it's not like Dean wasn't getting off in the process either. 

He's mostly only ever been attracted to girls, but he's never had a problem with man-on-man action; if he did he wouldn't have done what he did in his past, and he sure as hell wouldn't be working at the club. But messing around for protection or for money and actually wanting and desiring a man are two different things, and Dean would be lying to himself if he didn't admit it freaks him out a little.

But his biggest problem in all of this is that it could fuck up his job, and Dean needs this job more than anything else in his life right now, what his dick or his heart wants be damned. He's made more money in the past few months on this job than he would have made in a whole year of just working full time at the garage. This is important for both him and for Sam, and it'd be just like him to lose the job and ruin everything over a pair of blue eyes and a gravelly voice.

Dean throws his work gloves in the back of the landscape company's pickup before settling behind the wheel and slamming the door. He shakes his head as he remembers the look of hurt and confusion on Castiel's face as he'd told him he needed to leave. He felt like such an ass saying what he did, but he felt sick to himself with worry that Gordon had heard what was going on inside the room, had figured out what Dean had done. The assclown has been itching to get something over on Dean so as to get him fired, and Dean practically served it up to him on a silver platter last night.

Thankfully, Gordon didn't seem to be any the wiser of what had transpired, but Dean worries that he might have pushed Cas away for good with the cold way he kicked him out. So all this fretting may be for nothing if Cas doesn't ever show up again. 

The thought of no more visits from Castiel makes Dean feel worse than the thought of getting caught, which in and of itself is worrying enough. He shouldn't be so willing to risk everything for the chance to see this man he hardly knows again, but he is. He just needs to figure out a way to make it less risky from now on.

***************************

Once he's finished with his landscaping job that morning, Dean heads back to his apartment to shower and change clothes. He's running late, so he just grabs the t-shirt and jeans that were thrown on the floor days before, taking a second to sniff and make sure they're not too ripe before putting them on. Therefore, when Sam slides into the passenger seat of his car twenty minutes later, his eyes look Dean up and down before he snorts.

"Dude, you know there's this thing? Called an iron? Google it. It will change your world view."

Dean reaches over to rub the top of his brother's head, mussing his hair in exactly the way he knows Sammy hates. "Shuddup, I look awesome. The wrinkled look is in now, shithead."

"Dean, stop it!" Sam smacks Dean's hand away, reaching across himself to click his seatbelt in place. "Where are we going for lunch? I'm starving."

Snorting, Dean puts the gear back in drive, and pulls away from the curb. "It's up to you, beanstalk. I figure since you're the one growing about ten inches a week, I'll let you pick the fuel."

"In that case, I pick pizza."

"Fuck yeah, I am so in the mood for some sausage." Dean winces to himself as he remembers his earlier thoughts about Cas, and says a silent prayer of thanks that his little brother can't read minds, otherwise he'd be hearing way too many inappropriate jokes about his sudden desire for sausage.

"Actually, I want a veggie pizza."

"Of course you do, you little bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean smiles to himself and takes a deep, cleansing breath as he drives, enjoying the rightness of his world at this very moment.

***************************

Once they're settled in a booth at the pizza parlor and have gotten their order in, Sam starts jabbering on about school. Dean listens dutifully, enjoying listening to his brother's voice. He waits all week, every week, for this moment, when he gets to hang out with Sam and pretend like they're the family they're supposed to be, together and happy and just out for a boring lunch on a Saturday afternoon. It's the only time he feels he can truly relax, the only time he can do what he thinks he was supposed to do all along, which is take care of his little brother.

For a few short hours every Saturday, he can close his eyes, listen to Sammy, and pretend everything didn't go all to hell.

"So I told Jess that she should totally run for Debate Club president next year. I know there's never been a sophomore president before, but there's no rule against it, and I think she could run it way better than the moron in charge now."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Wait, which one's Jess again? The one with the rack or the one with the short skirts?"

"Dean! I told you I don't objectify my friends like that, it's wrong."

"Yeah, but just because you don't doesn't mean _I_ can't," Dean snorts.

"One word: jailbait," Sam replies.

Dean scoffs. "Just because I can't touch doesn't mean I can't look. Trust me, those girls want you to look."

"Dean, you're a pig," Sam says. "Besides, you haven't met Jess before."

Dean watches Sam reach into his back pocket, pulling out the cell phone that Dean had to bribe his foster mom to let him get for Sam at Christmas. He'd hated Sammy not having a way to get in touch with him if he ever got into trouble, not that Sam ever _did_ get in trouble. That's one trait he and Dean thankfully don't have in common.

"Here's a picture of Jess." He turns his phone on, scrolling his pictures until he finds what he's looking for. Holding it out to Dean, his face turns red as he waits for Dean's reaction.

"Holy shit, Sammy," Dean whistles. "How the fuck did you score her? Are you doing her homework for her?"

Sam leans across the table to punch Dean in the arm. "Shut up! I didn't _score_ her. We're just friends," he mumbles. "Besides, I'd never have to do her homework for her. She's way smarter than me."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Oh really? That hot _and_ she's smarter than you? You got your work cut out for you, big man."

Scowling, Sam says, "I know. She says we're too young to date and we should just be friends right now. But Dean, I really like her. I don't know what to do."

Dean tries to keep from grinning too big. "You do whatever she says, dude. She wears the pants in this situation. But I guarantee you, she's not gonna be able to resist those puppy dog eyes for too much longer. Those things should come with a warning label."

Dean chuckles as he watches those very eyes grow big and round, exuding an earnestness and naivety that Dean himself never got a chance to feel at that age. As much as he's bitter that he never really got to be a kid like that, he's just so fucking grateful that his little brother has somehow, through everything, been able to hold onto a little bit of it.

"You really think so? I mean, sometimes I think she likes me that way, but then other times she treats me just like she does any of her other friends."

"Dude, I _know_ so. If you want, I can teach ya a few things about girls—"

"Ew, Dean, gross—"

"I don't mean like _that_ , dickbag!" Dean cuts in. "I mean like how to talk to her, how to let her know you're interested without smothering her, how to make her feel special, shit like that. Chicks eat it up." He shrugs.

Sam chews on the inside of his cheek for a minute, staring at Dean. "Okay, if you think it'll help…"

"Oh, I know it'll help. If there's one gift God gave me, it's how to get laid."

"Dean!"

Dean laughs as he watches his little brother's face turn a bright shade of crimson. "So, big man, your birthday's in a few weeks, whatcha want for a present?"

"You know I don't want you to get me anything," Sam mumbles, fidgeting in his seat.

Dean hates that he can tell what Sam is thinking, and hates even more that it's his fault he's thinking it. "Yeah, well, tough shit because I'm getting you something. Totally legal and legit. So, you think on it and let me know. Okay?"

Sam nods, a worried yet fond look flitting across his face. "Yeah, okay."

"In the meantime, I figured I'd take you out this afternoon and let you get some driving practice in. You can't turn sixteen without having at least _some_ experience behind the wheel, you know."

Sam bounces in his seat and almost knocks over his soda, reminding Dean of Bambi with his long, awkward limbs getting in the way. "Bobby won't mind you letting me drive his car?"

Dean snorts. "Nah, that's just an old clunker from his garage, he doesn't give a shit if you crash it or not."

"I'm not gonna crash it, Dean," Sam replies haughtily, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, famous last words. How many times did you crash that one time at the park?"

"Those were _bumper_ cars."

"Still, that manager said you'd never be allowed on his track again."

"That bumper was faulty way before I ever got behind the wheel!"

"Save it for the jury, Evel Knievel."

***************************

The rest of Dean's weekend and the following week pass by in a blur of work and sleep. He spends most of the day on Sunday working his landscaping job, and then Monday through Friday is the usual dizzying blend of waking up early to rush to the garage and running home after work to shower and eat, before rushing to the club and working into the early morning hours of the following day.

Dean is grateful for the hectic days. They mean money, but they also mean he's too busy and too tired to worry much about what happened with Castiel the week before. He thinks about it a lot, his mind straying at rather inconvenient moments to the feel of Castiel's chest, hard and straining against his own, the smell of his skin as Dean rubbed his cheek along his neck, the husky voice crying out his name…these thoughts lead him to almost losing a hand at one point in a mistake at the garage, garnering a good cussing out from Bobby. 

But he doesn't have time to sit around and worry about what last week's actions could do to his job at the club, which is good. If Dean has time to worry, Dean has time to think of ways to fuck everything up. He works and handles things much better on the fly. But the downside to that is he's not had much chance to steel his emotions for the next time he sees Cas, and when Gordon informs him that his creepy stalker is waiting for him in the VIP room, Dean almost loses the battle to hide his dopey grin.

Butterflies take flight in Dean's stomach as he reaches for the doorknob, letting himself into the room and closing the door behind him. He spots Castiel immediately, sitting patiently in the chair in the middle of the room, hands folded in his lap.

Dean smiles at him, feeling his cheeks flush. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean," Castiel responds. 

Dean flinches when he hears Castiel use his real name. "Look, uh, Cas, you can't use my real name. At least, not where anyone can hear it. I'll get in trouble."

He curses to himself as he watches Castiel quickly look down at the floor, his face crestfallen. "I see. I'm sorry to have presumed—"

"No, man, it's okay! It's not your fault, it's the stupid rules." He watches as Castiel glances up at his face, eyes suspicious. "You can use my name in private, just between the two of us. I _want_ you to. You just have to be careful about it."

Castiel squints at him, head tilted and eyes unsure. "I'll be very careful, I promise you that." 

Now that they've gotten that out of the way, Dean's not sure how to make the next move, or even what that next move is. He's never developed feelings for a customer before. He knows what he wants to do, but he's not sure if it's something Castiel wants, and he's the one paying for the time here, so Dean doesn't want to fuck anything up by presuming they want the same thing.

"So, uh, how was your week?" he fumbles out, on a barely contained grimace at how inept and pathetic it sounds. This was so much easier when all that was expected of him was to dance and take his clothes off.

But Castiel's eyes light up with amusement as a ghost of a smile passes across his lips. "My week was good. And yours?"

Dean rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "It was good, uh, really good." 

They both stare at each other across the room for the span of several seconds before Dean curses to himself and turns to hook his iPod up to the speakers. He chooses one of his bluesy playlists, not really caring what it is other than the fact it's loud and sexy. He turns the volume up louder than usual, hoping to drown out any suspicious noises they might make in here.

Heart beating so hard he's surprised it hasn't jumped out of his throat to run off and join a drumline, Dean quickly tears off his pants and pulls his shirt up and over his head as he walks to Cas, stopping and standing in the V between his legs. As he stares down at the man, he reaches out and brushes a lock of hair off his forehead. Dude's got some serious sex hair, sticking out in every direction, almost like he's been laying around in bed all day with nothing better to do than get fucked silly.

Castiel stares up at him, eyes wide and questioning.

"Is this okay?" Dean murmurs.

"Yes," Cas whispers in return.

He scoots further down in the chair as Dean climbs into his lap, straddling his hips as he leans down to whisper against Cas's ear, "I've been thinking about this all week."

He grinds his hips down, rubbing his ass against Cas's growing erection, eliciting a moan from the man. Dean presses his bare chest against Castiel's clothed one, wishing like hell they could be skin on skin here. He wraps his arms behind Cas's back to press their chests even closer, squeezing hard as he works his ass against Cas's cock. He hears Cas gasp and turns his head to rub his check along the man's shoulder, watches as the muscles of Cas's arms flex and strain under the rolled-up sleeves of his business shirt, gripping the arms of the chair, knuckles white.

Dean's impressed with the man's self control. Not that he thinks that much of himself or anything, but it can't be easy to just sit there and let someone rub themselves all over you like a fucking cat in heat without being able to touch them at all. He knows if the roles were reversed he wouldn't be able to keep his hands from grabbing Cas's hips and yanking him down hard, pressing their bodies even closer together. Or, better yet, just throwing him down on the floor and having his way with him, spreading him wide and burying himself balls-deep in the man, making him scream and come without ever even touching his dick.

He's glad he thought to wear a thong with thicker fabric than usual. Not that it provides a whole lot of protection against the feel of friction, especially given how hard he's rutting against Cas's stomach, but it adds just enough that Dean thinks he'll be able to hold onto a bit of control. He can't risk coming again, not this early into his night. It was awkward as fuck dancing for his other VIPs last week after what happened with Cas. Trying to make your customer feel like they're the hottest person in the world isn't easy when your dick is not in the game anymore.

But he couldn't not crawl into Cas's lap and grind himself against the man, not after last week, and especially not when Dean can't stop thinking about him, can't stop wanting to see how much he can push and pull at the man before he'll break. He closes his eyes and rolls his hips in tiny circles, concentrating on the feel of Cas's pants on his ass, trying to find the head of his cock so that he can squeeze it along his crack. His breath hitches when he finds it, settling himself against it and grinding his ass along the length of it. 

Castiel gasps, bucking his hips up. "Dean…oh, oh… _yes_." 

He begins to lift his hips up, matching Dean's rhythm, and Dean curses to himself, tries to think about other things so as not to lose control again. He can feel Cas panting against his neck, breaths quick and hot, making Dean grip the back of the chair and grit his teeth. He turns his head just a bit, letting his lips get oh so close to the bolt of Cas's jaw. He wants to nibble there, wants to suck at the pulse point and feel the blood rushing to the surface of the skin, wants to mark Castiel to prove that he was here, that for one moment this was his.

"Dean, I want…I want to touch you," Cas whimpers. Dean can feel Cas's skin shivering where he pants against his neck, can feel the strength of the man beneath him, all hard lines and lean muscle.

"You can't, Cas," Dean murmurs, desperately wishing he could say otherwise. "We'll get in trouble if we break more rules."

He can feel the wetness along the crown of Castiel's cock seeping through his pants, and when the tip catches and drags against the cord of Dean's g-string Cas grunts, his dick jerking from the sensation. Dean bites his lip so hard he thinks it might bead blood, using every ounce of strength he has left to keep from ripping off this thong and fucking Cas or being fucked by Cas or just _something_.

"Please, Dean, I want to kiss you," Cas whispers in Dean's ear. "I need to kiss you, taste you…" 

Dean's eyes roll back as he squeezes them shut, Cas panting in his ear almost enough to make him jizz all over them right then. He growls in frustration, gripping the back of the chair tighter. Cas isn't the only one here wanting to taste and touch, but he _is_ the only one not allowed to.

"You can't, Cas," Dean groans into the other man's neck. "But I can do this." He reaches up to thread his fingers through Cas's hair, pulling his head just a bit to the right, giving him better access. He sticks his tongue out to tease the tip of Castiel's earlobe before sucking it into his mouth. He massages Cas's scalp with his fingers, cradling his skull as he sucks and teases the tender flesh of his ear.

"Ahhh, oh, Dean, _fuck_ ," Cas grunts, and Dean groans at hearing Castiel curse. He never would have expected it of him, and realizing that what he's doing to the man is what made him say such a filthy word makes Dean want to see what else he can make the man say.

He lets go of Cas's earlobe long enough to whisper, "Say 'fuck' again for me, Cas." 

He feels a rumble in Castiel's chest and realizes that he's laughing.

"You keep doing that and I'll say anything you want me to say."

Dean pulls back enough to look at Castiel's face, and the fondness he sees in the man's eyes is unnerving. He's not had anyone look at him like that before, and if he wasn't so fucking turned on right now he'd be terrified of it. But as disconcerting as that look is, Dean still has the presence of mind to smirk.

"It's a deal," he says, before diving back towards Castiel's throat. 

He takes a moment to run the tip of his tongue along the cord of Castiel's neck, reveling in the way Cas's hips buck at the sensation, before latching back onto his earlobe and biting just hard enough to make Cas shout, "Fuck!" hips thrusting up and stilling, body tense as he spills his seed.

Along his ass, Dean can feel the stickiness of Cas's pants where he came, and he experiences a mixture of discomfort and curiosity, wondering what the man's come tastes like and wishing he could strip his pants off and find out for himself. Which, yeah, is a weird feeling to have for the first time, especially when he's still in the dude's lap and mostly naked and still hard himself.

He stays on top of Cas, rubbing slowly against him as Cas pants his way through his orgasm. Dean's pretty fucking proud of himself for not jizzing too, because goddamn, this was a Herculean effort, given how ridiculously hot Castiel is. Even now, as he pulls back and looks at the man's face, he's having to work hard to hold himself back. Cas is lying there with his eyes closed, head against the back of the chair. His cheeks are flushed, and the stubble along his jaw is dark, making Dean's fingers itch to feel the scratchiness. His lips are parted slightly and wet, a furious pink color, probably from where he was biting his lip. As Dean stares at his mouth, Cas's tongue peeks out to swipe along his lips, leaving a glistening trail before sneaking back into his mouth, and that's not fucking fair _at all_.

Castiel opens his eyes, catching Dean staring at him and making him blush, which is really fucking absurd given what just transpired. He smiles faintly at Dean, eyes warm, and slowly lifts his hand, palm facing the side of Dean's face, less than an inch away from touching. He doesn't place his hand against Dean's skin, obviously not wanting to break the stupid rules of the club. But Dean can feel the warmth of his palm, so close yet not touching, and he can't take it anymore, he needs to feel Cas's hand on him, if only for a few seconds.

He leans into Cas's hand and closes his eyes, rubbing his cheek against the softness of his palm. Cas slowly strokes Dean's cheekbone, letting his thumb glide over Dean's eyelashes so lightly that it tickles. Dean takes a slow, shaky breath, and just for a moment he enjoys just letting someone touch him and letting himself relax into that touch. He's always just going full stop, never taking a moment to just sit back and _be_.

But as much as he wants this moment to last, he knows it can't. The threat of Gordon walking in at any minute is too great, given that Dean really has no idea how long they've been going at it. He opens his eyes to find Castiel still gazing at him, the look on his face unreadable. Dean turns his head slightly, just enough that Cas's palm is caressing his mouth instead of his cheek. He purses his lips, closing his eyes as he gives Cas's palm a kiss before pulling away and climbing off of the man's lap.

He can feel Castiel's eyes on him as he makes his way to the shelves, pulling a towel out of the cabinet. Cas had forgotten to slide a towel into his pants, so he needs something to attempt to clean himself up before heading back out into the club. Dean steps back over to Cas, reaching out to hand him the towel. The man silently accepts it, and tries to wipe himself off without taking his pants down. As he unzips, Dean kneels in front of him, placing a hand on each of Castiel's knees. Cas looks up at him, surprised.

"Hey, Cas, you think maybe you can start coming here on Wednesday nights instead of Friday nights from now on?" Dean asks.

Castiel's brow furrows in confusion and he tilts his head as he stares at Dean. "I suppose I could, if you want."

Dean smiles at him. "See, my nights are getting switched, and I didn't want you to show up next Friday and me not be here."

Castiel returns his smile. "Ah, yes, then. I can visit any time you want."

"Heh, yeah, I figured, I just wanted to make sure." Dean chews on his lip as he tries to decide the best way to ask this next question. "Also, do you, um, think you could make it so you're my last customer from now on?"

The look of confusion on Castiel's face increases, his eyes going slitty with wariness. "Of course. If that works best for you."

"It will, thanks." Dean stands up, and Castiel follows him to the door. 

"So, I'll see you next Wednesday, then?" Dean reminds him, and he realizes he feels stupidly shy about it, like it's a _date_ , and he finds he can't stop himself from reaching forward to circle his fingers around Castiel's wrist, squeezing gently.

Castiel smiles at him, stepping forward into Dean's personal space and taking a deep breath. "Yes, De—I mean, _Tyler_. I'll see you next week."

Castiel looks so fucking proud of himself for remembering to call him Tyler that it's all Dean can do to keep from grabbing him and hugging the shit out of him. How can a dude be so hot and so adorable at the same time? "Okay, man.," he says softly instead. "Have a good weekend."

Dean doesn't let himself watch Castiel walk down the hallway, no matter how much he wants to. Gordon's yapping on his cell phone just a couple of doors down the hall, but Dean knows he's probably watching them say goodbye like a douchebag hawk.

Dean closes the door behind him, leaning against it and grinning to himself. If all goes well, his plan to spend more time with Castiel without Gordon breathing down their necks should work. Ash is the VIP room bouncer on Wednesday nights, since they're usually not as busy and not needing a scary-as-shit dude looming over everybody. And slotting Castiel in his last timeslot means Dean can spend as long as he wants with him _and_ can jizz a fucking geyser if he wants.

He didn't survive the foster care system and juvie and being homeless without learning how to be a sneaky sonuvabitch, so at least his shitty life has served him well in that respect.

He moves away from the door and begins cleaning up, prepping for his next customer of the night, humming quietly to himself and smiling as he remembers the way Cas looks at him when he says his name.

***************************


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel spends the weekend splitting his time between both novels, as well as fielding emails from Pamela. He keeps as busy as he can, but he still finds himself staring at the clock and willing time to move faster.

He's begun to build his days and weeks around his visits to Dean, and he'd be concerned about it if he wasn't the happiest he's been in months, if not years. He knows he shouldn't be so dependent on this strange relationship, if one can even call it that. For all Castiel knows, Dean could still very well only think of him as a customer. But the more he sees of Dean, the more he can make Dean smile and laugh, the more Dean seems to desire him and is happy to see him, the more Castiel is beginning to believe that Dean has feelings for him, as well. And this leaves him confused, unsure of whether or not he should try to see Dean outside of the club, doubtful of whether Dean even wants to change this situation in that way.

For his own albeit temporary peace of mind, he's decided to adopt the rules of the club for this situation. He's going to let Dean be in control of what happens, let him make the first move of changing the status of their relationship, if he so chooses. Until then, Castiel will just visit him every week and let him know in any way that he can that he's interested in taking this further. 

Castiel marvels at how he's now able to give up control, to step back and let someone else determine his fate. It's still not easy, by any means. And stepping out of his house is still a chore that he must work himself up to. But it is, slowly, getting easier for him each time he does so. He fancies that one day he may even be able to walk out the door without a complete minute-by-minute itinerary planned in advance.

Before Castiel knows it, Wednesday is upon him. When he arrives at the club, he's pleased to see how thin the crowd is, and wonders why he'd not considered visiting on a weekday evening before now. He concludes ruefully that his focus on Dean and his fear of leaving his home have given him a such severe case of tunnel vision he'd not even been able to fathom going on a less busy evening.

He sits at his usual table in the back, waving to Chuck as he watches the man scurry to take the drinks order at a table full of women near the stage before making his way over to Castiel.

"Hey, Castiel! What are you doing here on a Wednesday? One night a week not enough for you anymore?"

Castiel supposes that it isn't any of Chuck's business that he changed his schedule at Dean's request – he's not even sure if Chuck is someone Dean would trust around here. " I decided to try visiting during the week to avoid some of the crowd," he tells Chuck instead, and he pauses to scan the room. "I must say, there does seem to be quite a difference between Wednesdays and Fridays."

"Yeah, tips fucking suck on Wednesdays," Chuck complains. "Uh, pardon my language."

Castiel smiles. "Don't worry, Chuck. I like a bit of colorful language." His chest warms as he thinks of Dean's frank and colorful way of talking.

"Uh, okay, cool. So uh, Castiel…" Chuck nervously plays with the edge of a napkin on the table, and Castiel waits silently for him to work up the courage to say what's on his mind. "Have you, uh, heard anything from your editor about my novel? I emailed it to her just a couple days after you gave me her email address, and I haven't heard back."

Colorful language springs to mind, but Castiel is neutral when he replies. "She did ask if you really were a friend of mine, but I've not heard anything else about it from her."

"Oh. Okay. I guess no news is good news, huh?"

"That's the best way to look at it, I believe, yes." Castiel notices the disappointed look on the waiter's face, and feels a wave of sympathy for him. "She may not have had time to read it yet. She's very busy, I can assure you of that."

Chuck grimaces. "Yeah, I get it. It's okay. It's not like I've got anything else to do but wait, right? So, you want your usual beer tonight?"

"Yes, thank you." 

Castiel watches as the man steps back and turns to walk to the bar, and then, with the memory of his own fifteen rejection letters giving him a little push, "Chuck!" he calls after him.

Chuck stops, turning around to see what Castiel wanted.

"Next time I speak with Pamela, I'll ask her if she's had a chance to read it yet."

Chuck's face lights up. "Thanks, Castiel! I really appreciate it!"

With that settled, Castiel settles back into his chair to watch the night's performances.

***************************

Fewer patrons also means less chaos during the performances, Castiel notices. The dancers still receive tips as they perform, the expected dollar bills wedged into g-strings, as well as not a few slips of paper with what Castiel can only presume are phone numbers. He's intrigued to see that the male dancers get more fanfare and tips than the female dancers, though the attention the women receive is nothing to be scoffed at either.

Castiel makes his way to the VIP hallway to reserve a dance with Dean before Tyler Page goes on stage. There's a moment of confusion as he tries to explain to the weedy bouncer that he'd like the last dance of the night with Tyler.

"Man, how am I supposed to know when the last dance will be? Could be at ten, could be at midnight, for all I know, Tyler's a popular dude. This ain't the Olive Garden, we don't have a pager system here, you know," the man scoffs.

"I'll come to you every so often to get updates on the time, I have no problem waiting," Castiel replies, jaw set.

"Ooookay. Hey man, no biggie. You don't mind waitin', I'll let you in whenever you want," the man shrugs.

"I'll check in with you a bit after Tyler's performance, then."

Castiel finds his way back to his table just as Dean takes the stage. His costume tonight is that of a priest, and he walks slowly to the middle of the stage with a rosary wrapped around his hand. Castiel has never really understood the sexual fascination some have with priests, but he must admit, Dean does look especially becoming in the clerical outfit with the white collar.

Dean stands still with eyes closed under the spotlight as music begins to play, what sounds like Gregorian chants. The audience grows quiet as they watch him, mesmerized by his reverence as he kneels down, palming the rosary to his lips as he whispers a prayer to himself. Castiel holds his breath as he watches, much as the rest of the room must be doing since you could most likely hear a pin drop.

The chants over the sound system fade away, and for a few long seconds there is complete silence in the room as Dean continues to kneel, whispering to himself with eyes closed. As he purses his lips to kiss the rosary, a guitar riff explodes through the loudspeakers, and Dean opens one eye, raises an eyebrow, looks out at the crowd, and smirks.

The women at the front tables all start screaming at once, jumping up and clapping, as the men at the table on the other side of the stage start whooping and hollering. Castiel smiles to himself, not surprised at all that Dean could send everyone into a frenzy with just a smirk. Dean slides his hands slowly up his chest, bottom lip caught between his teeth as his gaze spans the audience. He juts his shoulders to the beat of the drums, slowly thrusting his hips before jumping up and motioning with his hands to encourage the audience.

He bounces his way across stage, and as the song begins the chorus he rips off his shirt and pants, revealing his g-string underneath. He claps his hands to the music, engaging the audience and encouraging them to clap along with him, even getting them to sing along with the chorus, the entire room screaming, "I'm on a hiiiighway to hellll!"

It's a wonderful number, and Castiel is reminded yet again of what a great performer Dean is. He has such an infectious and engaging warmth about him. He can pull anyone in with a wink and a smile, make them want to be a part of his world and find out what lies underneath.

 _Or maybe that's just me_ , Castiel muses. There's always been something there for him, something that makes him want to get closer, something that pulls him to Dean. He recognizes something in the man that feels familiar to him, though he's never been given any reason to think that they have anything in common. He just can't seem to shake the feeling that, if given the chance, with Dean he could find the answers to questions he didn't even know he had. 

Dean finishes his number with countless wads of dollar bills in his g-string and the white collar still around his neck. He smiles and waves at the audience as he backs off the stage, and Castiel waits about half an hour before returning to the VIP hallway. The bouncer waves to him as he sees him.

"Hey man, Tyler said to tell you to come back in about an hour. He's got three other dances to do before you."

Castiel nods. "That sounds fine, thank you."

"No problemo, man," the man replies as he holds his hand out to Castiel. "I'm Ash, by the way. Tyler says you're a cool cat, so you need anything, you just let me know."

Castiel looks down at Ash's hand for several seconds before reluctantly grasping it with his own. "Thank you, Ash. I appreciate it."

He returns to his table, orders another beer when Chuck stops by and leans back in his chair, thoughts of Dean kneeling before him in that priest costume keeping him occupied until it's time to find his way back to the VIP room.

***************************

Castiel knocks quietly on the door before entering, but when he doesn't hear a response he hesitates.

"You can go in, Tyler said just to send you in whenever you got back," Ash says behind him.

Castiel glances over his shoulder at the bouncer before hesitantly turning the doorknob and walking in. As he shuts the door behind him, he notices Dean standing in front of the cabinets along the opposite wall, fully clothed in the priest outfit, his back to Castiel. His shoulders are hunched over, and it takes a couple seconds for Castiel to realize that he's on his cell phone. He's about to clear his throat when Dean starts talking.

"Dude, fucking promise me that that's what really happened. I swear to god, if that asshole hurt you—"

He stops whispering, as if the person on the other end of the line has interrupted him. Castiel doesn't want to eavesdrop, but at the same time he's very concerned by how upset Dean obviously is, and is afraid to make his presence known.

Castiel watches as Dean grasps the counter with the hand not holding the phone, knuckles white as he grips the edge. "I know, I know, I just…I can't stand not being there, Sammy. Please just, just tell me you'll call me if you need me, okay? I don't give a fuck what the judge says, I will steal a car and get you out of there so fast—"

There's another pause as whoever Dean is talking to interrupts him again before Dean continues, his voice cracking. "Okay, I know. Just…take the pain pills the doc gave you, and get some rest…and call me when you wake up tomorrow, okay? Okay. I love you, shithead."

Dean ends the call and throws the phone across the room before kicking the wall in front of him, and slamming a fist into the cabinet. He still hasn't noticed Castiel's presence, and Castiel's not sure of what to do. He steps as quietly as possible up to Dean and places a hand on his shoulder.

Dean gasps, turning to look over his shoulder at Castiel, tears streaking a path down his cheeks.

"Dean, what happened?" Castiel whispers.

Dean's face crumples as he tries to hold back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "I don't know what to do anymore, Cas."

Castiel lets his hand drop from Dean's shoulder as the man turns around to face him. He wants to offer him comfort, maybe wrap his arms around him, give him a shoulder to cry on, but Castiel has never really understood how to offer such things without being awkward. And as he watches Dean, he can tell that the man is wary, trying in vain to shut himself off, but so obviously distraught that he's not able to do so. "Maybe it would help if you talk about it?" he broaches cautiously.

Dean shakes his head. "I don't talk about this shit. It's nobody's business but my own."

He wipes his tears away with the back of his hand, looking everywhere in the room but at Castiel in front of him. He moves to walk away, but at the last second Castiel reaches out, placing his hand at the crook of Dean's elbow. Dean looks down at his hand, confusion flitting across his face as if he doesn't understand how the hand got there, doesn't understand why Castiel is touching him.

"You listened to me once, when I felt I had no one to listen," Castiel says gently. "Please allow me to return the favor."

Dean's brow knits a line of worry and pain before smoothing out in defeat. "I'm gonna need whiskey."

"Of course you will. I'll ask Ash to bring us a bottle."

Castiel steps swiftly to the door, grateful to find Ash leaning against the wall just outside the room. "I'm sorry to bother you, Ash, but could you please have Chuck bring us a bottle of whiskey? He'll know to put it on my tab."

"Heh, rock on, man. Will do!" He salutes Castiel before sauntering down the hall and into the club room.

As Castiel turns back into the room, he finds Dean has pulled up the folded chair in front of the leather chair, as he did what seems like forever ago when Castiel confessed his secrets to Dean. Castiel sits down as Dean turns his chair around, straddling it again. He watches in silence as Dean scrubs his face with his hands, keeping his eyes squeezed shut for several moments before opening them and glancing at Cas. Dean rolls his eyes when he finds Castiel staring at him.

"Dude, you make me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, the way you keep staring at me."

"My apologies," Castiel replies. 

"Nah, it's okay. I just…I've never really talked about this before, alright? At least, not to anybody that's not gettin' paid to make me talk, and even then they only wanna hear the bare minimum to say they did their job."

Castiel squints, confused. "Who is _they_?"

Dean grimaces. He stares at the floor between them for several moments before saying, "Child Protection Services. State shrinks. People like that."

Castiel waits to see if Dean is going to elaborate, and when he doesn't, he asks, "Who was on the phone, Dean?"

A sad smile breaks across the man's face, filled with such love and heartache that it almost takes Castiel's breath away. "My little brother. Sammy."

As Castiel opens his mouth to speak there's a knock on the door. "Whiskey is a-go-go!" Ash announces from the other side.

Castiel huffs, standing up and walking to the door. When he opens it, Ash thrusts the bottle and two glasses at him with a wink. 

Castiel nudges the door closed with his knee, walks back to hand both glasses to Dean, and silently fills them with whiskey, taking one for himself as he watches Dean drink his down with one gulp. He refills Dean's glass without comment, and sets it down on the floor beside him before returning to his seat.

"How old is your brother?"

Dean sighs. "He turns sixteen in a couple weeks."

Castiel hesitates, wanting to ask but afraid to hear the answer. "Does he…is he living with your parents?"

Dean stares at his hands, tilting his glass and watching the amber liquid swirl. "Our parents are dead," he says, voice monotone.

Castiel somehow knew the answer before he heard it, but that doesn't make him ache any less for the man before him. He remains silent, occasionally taking sips of his drink as he waits for Dean to continue.

With a shaky breath, Dean clears his throat. "Our house caught fire when I was ten. Sammy was just a little rugrat, I think he was around six months old or somethin'. It was faulty wiring or some shit like that, I dunno. Didn't really matter what caused it. All that mattered was my mom was dead."

Dean takes another swallow of whiskey, grinding his teeth and steeling his jaw as he swallows the liquid down. "My dad tried to save her, but the heat was too much, and the smoke…he couldn't see a damn thing. He got me out, ran back in and grabbed Sammy, handed him off to me outside. But it was too late for Mom. He couldn't reach her."

He gets a faraway look in his eyes as he continues. "It might've been better if Dad had just died in the fire that night, too. 'Cause we lost him that night just as good as if he'd burned. He started drinkin' and just couldn't stop. My mom was his world. And even though he loved us and he did his best to take care of us, he couldn't do it. He was too broken. Most days, he couldn't even get himself out of bed."

He finishes off what's left of the alcohol in his glass and leans down, wrapping his fingers around the bottle and pouring himself some more. "So, I ended up taking care of Sam, most of the time. I cooked his meals and made sure he washed up every night, I got him dressed and did our laundry, made sure Dad was sober enough to drive him to daycare every morning, and I'd swing by after school and pick him up to take him home, since by that time Dad would be too drunk to drive."

Castiel speaks up. "How was your father able to work and support you financially if he was drunk all of the time?"

Dean snorts. "He got a settlement from the company that did the wiring on the house. Wasn't much, and he wasted it all inside a couple years, but it was enough to keep him from having to work. And since he wasn't working, he didn't really have anyone to answer to. We don't have any other family."

"Why didn't you tell your teachers that you were having to take care of your brother, and that your father was so sick?"

Dean stares at Castiel, an angry expression marring his features. "Are you fucking kidding me? I wasn't stupid. I knew that if I told someone what was going on they'd take us away from him. My dad may have been fucked up, but he was the only dad we had. There was no fucking way I was going to do anything to break us up even more."

Castiel nods quickly. "I understand, Dean. And I would most likely have done the same, were I in your shoes."

Dean stares at him, body tense. After several moments he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "No matter how hard I tried to keep us together though, I did end up fucking it all to pieces anyways. One night about four years after my mom died, I was in a real pissy mood, I don't even remember what about. And I was just so fucking tired of my dad's shit, y'know? Just once, I wanted to feel like a normal kid, not have to make sure my snotty little brother got fed and not have to make sure my dad didn't pass out and choke on his puke. So I asked dad for Burger King for supper, and he said no, he didn't feel like going to get it, and I just lost it. Started yelling and screaming about him being too lazy and too much of a drunk to be a real dad. And as I was screaming, I saw this look on my dad's face, like so much hurt and self-loathing and pain."

Dean's voice cracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut and clears his throat before continuing. "And before he turned his back on me I saw that I'd made my dad cry, and I hated myself for that, so much more than I could have ever hated him, because here was this broken man, and he loved me but didn't know how to even fucking live anymore, and I just shit all over him."

Dean swallows hard and takes a deep breath. "So, a few minutes later, he grabs his keys, gets this big smile on his face and says, 'hey kids, let's go to Burger King.' I knew he was too drunk to drive, I _knew_ it, but like the selfish asshole that I am, I was just happy that for once we could pretend like we were a normal family. Go to Burger King and get me a fucking cheeseburger and watch Sammy play on the swings like the goofy dork he was." His voice falters, goes so faint Castiel has to strain to hear it. "On the way there, Dad swerved into oncoming traffic, over-corrected and ended up wrapping us around a utility pole. The coroner said he died instantly."

Castiel feels the bottom drop out of his stomach in horror. He watches a tear find its way down Dean's cheek, feels an overwhelming urge to reach out and wipe it away, but he doesn't. Instead, he waits patiently for Dean to continue.

"Sammy and I weren't hurt too bad, thank god. But we got put under state care, since we don't have any other family. We got shifted around from foster family to foster family, and the state tried its best to keep us in the same families but it wasn't easy, especially with me being a teenager. So most of the time, we were separated. I thought for sure with Sam being so young and such a cute kid that he'd get adopted, but neither one of us ever did. They were supposed to let us have visits together every week or so if we were separated, and for the most part we did, but it was never enough. Sammy was the only family I had left, and I was supposed to take care of him, and I couldn't. I felt like a piece of me was missing whenever we were apart." He finally passes a shaking hand over his eyes. "Still do, most days," he mumbles under his breath. 

Castiel watches as he shifts in his seat, becoming more uneasy as he ponders the rest of his story.

"Then when I was sixteen, I wanted to get Sam a birthday present. The brat had his heart set on this fucking science kit, and I begged my foster mom to give me the money for it, but she wouldn't do it, even after I promised to work it off by cleaning the house for weeks or going out and getting a job somewhere. So, I tried stealing it. But idiot that I am, I got caught." He exhales harshly, and his voice goes louder, angry now. "They threw me in juvie for it, and I ended up having to stay there until I turned eighteen. That place was a fucking shit tank. I don't see how they can expect any kid to come out of that as anything other than a criminal. But the worst thing about it was they wouldn't let me see Sammy anymore. I went almost two years without getting to see him, and that was the worst time of my life."

He shakes his head, wiping the tears from his eyes again. "When I finally got out of juvie, I didn't know what to do with myself. I got my GED while I was in there, but I had no idea how to go about getting a job. I had no skills. The state offered to give me a place to stay and help getting started, but I wanted to get as far away from that as I could. I checked in with my state-appointed counselor every so often because it was mandatory and that was the only way I could start back up with my visitations with Sam. But other than that, I was on my own. I went almost a year without a steady job or a place to live. I stayed at the Y every so often, but that place gave me the creeps, so I avoided it when I could. I had to do a lot of shit I'm not proud of to survive."

He glances up at Castiel, eyes darting quickly away as his cheeks flush. Castiel can only imagine what someone in such dire straits would have to do to survive, and he silently curses all the people who have failed these two boys.

"One day, I was walking down this street, and I saw a Now Hiring sign in the window of an auto shop. The only thing I knew about cars was shit my dad told me on the few occasions he was sober and working on his Impala, but I figured, what the hell, it's worth a shot. I told the owner, Bobby, that I didn't know much yet, but that I'd work harder for him than anybody he'd ever met. The dude hired me on the spot."

He manages a laugh that sounds surprised, and his whole expression goes amazed for a moment as he continues. "I was all proud of myself, thinking I must've really impressed the guy if he hired me so fast without any references. But Bobby told me about a year later that the reason he hired me was because he was afraid I'd get blown away by a decent gust of wind, I was so skinny. And once Bobby heard I was sleeping at the Y when they had room and the park across town when they didn't, he cleaned up an old storage room at the garage and put up a cot in there for me."

Dean grins as he talks about his boss. "Bobby saved my life. If it wasn't for him, I don't know if I'd ever been able to get my shit together enough for the state to let me start seeing Sam every week again."

He continues to smile wistfully as his finger traces the edge of his glass. "Since then, I've made enough to get my own apartment. It's not much, but I don't need much to get by. I started working here at the club when I heard one of the other dancers who'd come in to the garage get his car worked on talk about how much he made in a night. I've only been dancing a few months, but I've already made more than I make in a year at the garage. That makes it worth all the humiliation and the weirdos. I'm saving all the money I make here to put Sammy through college."

Dean's eyes light up as he talks about his brother. "You know, they say Sam's testing at genius levels? I always knew that big head was good for somethin'. He says he wants to be a child advocacy lawyer. If anyone can do it, I know he can. And since I couldn't be there for him the past few years, I wanna make sure I get him started off right once he graduates high school. It's the least I can do for him."

His voice fades as he finishes. He slumps in his chair, shoulders hunched, almost as if he's lost all energy now that he's finished telling Castiel about his childhood. Castiel feels such a wave of affection for this man before him that he almost can't breathe.

"Dean, what was the phone call about tonight? Is Sam alright?" he asks.

Dean scowls. "Sam called to tell me that he fell and broke his hand at baseball practice."

"How is he now?"

"He's okay. At least, that's what he tells me. I wouldn't put it past him to lie to keep me from freaking out."

"I don't understand, do you think he's lying about what happened?" Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs, resting his chin in the palm of his hand as he leans against the back of the chair. "He knows I don't trust his foster mom or her deadbeat boyfriend. And he knows I'll get pissed at myself because I wasn't there to protect him."

"It sounds like Sam knows you well, and cares enough to want to protect you as much as you do him."

"Yeah, well, that's the Winchester way, throw yourself in the line of fire to protect your family," Dean chuckles.

"Maybe you both should find more constructive ways to take care of each other," Castiel replies.

Dean stares at Castiel, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well, I'm open to suggestions, Cas."

Before Castiel can respond, there's a knock on the door, and Ash sticks his head in a second later.

"Hey guys, if you don't need anything I thought I'd clock off?"

"You're good to go, buddy," Dean says with a wave, and he stares at the closed door for a moment before turning his head and catching Castiel staring openly at him.

"Dude, you sure like to stare, don't you?"

Castiel frowns. "Does that bother you?"

Dean shrugs and clears his throat. "Nah, I guess not. Just takes some gettin' used to."

He keeps his eyes steady on the floor, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. He seems to be working up the nerve to say or ask something, so Castiel remains quiet, waiting to hear what it is.

"So, uh, I can still dance for you tonight, if you want." He glances quickly at Castiel before looking at his hands. "I mean, you did pay for it and everything."

Castiel shakes his head. "Dean…no. I don't need you to dance for me. I'm fine with the way we spent this evening. More than fine, actually. I'm honored that you felt comfortable enough to share this with me."

A sigh escapes Dean's lips. "Oh thank god, I am so fucking tired, Cas, you don't even know."

Castiel laughs and stands up. "Well, in that case, I think I'll be going ahead and making my leave."

Dean jumps up. "Oh no, no, man! I didn't mean you had to go!"

Shaking his head, Castiel reaches for his coat. "No, Dean, this is quite alright. I'm actually pretty tired, as well. And this way, maybe you can go home early and get some rest. I'm sure you'll feel much better in the morning."

Dean smiles and steps closer to Castiel. "Actually, I think I'm feeling better now. I really appreciate you letting me get all that off my chest. I didn't realize how good it'd feel just to say it and let it out."

Castiel reaches inside his coat, pulling out a pen and a small notebook he uses to jot down ideas when he's not near his computer. "If you ever feel the need to talk again, or if you just need someone to listen to you vent, here's my cell phone and home phone numbers." 

He writes both numbers down on the tiny slip of paper and hands it to Dean. "Please, Dean. Don't hesitate to call me whenever you want. I enjoy talking to you." 

As he slips the paper into Dean's hand, he wraps his fingers around the man's fist and squeezes. Dean looks down at their joined hands, his mouth opening and closing several times before he finds the words to speak, his voice hoarse. 

"Thanks, Cas," he whispers. "See you next week?"

Castiel's heart breaks at the hopeful note in Dean's voice, the man's eyes wide and vulnerable. "Of course, Dean. See you next week."

***************************


	7. Chapter 7

Dean spends the rest of the week feeling torn between relief at finally being able to share his history and his constant worries with someone, and insecurity at knowing there's someone out there who now knows his secrets.

If Castiel hadn't walked in on that phone call, Dean probably would have never shared his life story with him. But he caught Dean in such a moment of weakness that Dean had to let it out, had to let someone help him carry this burden, even if only for a few minutes, long enough for him to get his shit together and his mind straight. Thing about it though is that if it had been anybody else walking in on the phone call, Dean's pretty sure he wouldn't have told them anything, no matter how much they may have bugged him about it.

No, the reason he confessed to Cas was because it was _Cas_ , and not because he couldn't help himself from spilling it to just anybody. There's something about Cas that makes Dean feel important, like what he has to think and say actually means something. Dean's not met anyone that makes him feel like he's worth getting to know, like there's something underneath his cocky smile and bravado that's worthy of anyone's notice, at least not anyone other than Sam, of course. 

And Dean doesn't know what to do with that. He finds himself torn between wanting to push Cas away so he doesn't disappoint him – as he knows he will inevitably do – and wanting to cling to him, pull him in and show him everything he's got, hoping and praying he'll still be there once he's seen what a fuckup Dean really is. 

Dean has never let anybody in before, not anyone who wasn't already a part of his family, like Sammy. He's getting close to trusting Bobby enough to consider him family, but even that scares him shitless because he can't ever stop being afraid that once someone knows who he really is and what he's come from, they'll drop him like a hot potato in the middle of July. And he can't stand the thought of losing Bobby after all this time working for him. He values the job, yeah, but he values Bobby's good opinion even more. He's been a constant in his life for the past several years, and that's something that Dean has been in desperate need of since the fire changed everything so long ago.

The job thing is another aspect to all of this that has Dean feeling on edge and confused. Cas is a paying customer, for chrissakes. If Crowley found out that things are going beyond what's considered a routine business transaction, he'd flip his lid. Dean can't lose this job, he makes way too much money to be stupid enough to let that happen. But at the same time, there's a tiny voice in his head that tells him to take something for himself for a change.

And that something for himself is Cas. Dean can't remember the last time he's thought about wanting something that didn't have to do with helping Sammy or making things right for the both of them. The last time he allowed himself to be selfish was when he pitched a fit about wanting Dad to take them out for dinner, and that didn't turn out so well for anybody, he thinks bitterly.

But dammit, he wants to be selfish right now. He _wants_ Cas, and admitting that to himself is like a gut punch. It's exhilarating and terrifying, leaving him feeling guilty but excited. It's been so long since he's allowed himself to want something that he's not sure what to do with the information. And he sure as hell doesn't know what to do next, especially since he's not even sure Castiel feels the same way.

For all Dean knows, Cas just thinks of him as a hot piece of ass, something to stare at and jack off to. Even remembering the look of sincerity and concern on the man's face as he gave Dean his phone number isn't enough to alleviate Dean's fear that Castiel doesn't really give a shit about him. It would be just Dean's luck to finally try for a little bit of happiness of his own only to realize that the dude would rather watch him dance and take his clothes off, before walking away at the end of the night. 

Dean couldn't blame Castiel, if that were true. He's got about fifty pounds of issues squeezed into a ten-pound bag. No poor sap in his right mind would be willing to take that on, no matter how hot the piece of ass is. Dean just hopes, for once, that maybe Castiel is crazy enough to want to take things further. One thing he's decided though, is that he's not going to be the one to make the move. He wants to be sure that it's actually something Cas wants, and not something he feels pressured or guilted into.

So that means, no matter how much he itches to open up that tiny slip of paper and dial Cas's number, he won't be calling him.

***************************

Dean has his weekly meet-up with Sam on Saturday, and it takes every ounce of self control he has not to give the kid a good, thorough once-over to make sure he's not hiding any other injuries.

"Dean, if you squeeze any harder, I might have to be put on a respirator," Sam says.

Chuckling, Dean loosens his bear hug a little, but still keeps his arms wrapped around his little brother. "You are not allowed to break any more bones in this decade, you got it?"

Sam grimaces. "Yeah, yeah, I know. It was a really freaking stupid move, too. I knew better than to dive for that ball."

"Did you at least get the out?"

"It was practice, Dean. But yeah, I got it."

"That's my boy," Dean grins, rubbing his knuckles against Sam's scalp. 

Sam dives out from under Dean's arm, protesting the move. "Dean! You know how much I hate that."

"Which is why I have to do it. Big brother rules that all big brothers must abide by."

They stroll into Big Pepe's, a weird little restaurant about ten minutes from Sam's foster home. The place can't seem to make up its mind about whether it's Mexican or Italian, but Dean and Sam don't give a shit because it has the best burritos and spaghetti and meatballs in town. No matter how many times Dean begs though, Sam always ends up ordering the bean burrito platter, making it the only time ever that Dean is grateful he doesn't live with his little brother. As toxic as Sam's farts are normally, Dean can't even begin to imagine how bad the night might be after Big Pepe's _Fagiolo Burrito Supreme_.

Once they've ordered, Dean glances at Sam's cast, noticing lots of scribbles and drawings in different colors. "So, who all has signed your cast so far?"

Sam smiles and holds his cast out so Dean can get a closer look. He points out different names, explaining who they are or what the different drawings meant to him. As he comes across a purple signature with swirls and hearts drawn around it, he blushes.

"That's, um, that girl I told you about. Jess."

"Ah, look at that, Sammy boy!" Dean crows. "That many hearts and swirlies must be a good thing, right?"

Sam grins sheepishly. "Yeah, um, we're kind of going to a movie tomorrow afternoon. Sunday matinee, so nothing serious."

Dean nods out fake thoughtfulness. "So I guess the wounded duck thing isn't all bad, then, if it gets you a sympathy date?"

Sam scoffs. "Shut up, this isn't a sympathy date! It just…helped move things along faster."

"Aw, it's so cute that you believe that."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Bitch."

"You know, you really need to think up a different comeback. That one's stale."

Dean snickers. "I will when you get more creative than _jerk_. I mean, come on, Sam. You're almost fifteen. You can say the bad words now."

"Asshole. How's that one?"

Dean wipes away an imaginary tear. "My darling baby boy's all growed up now."

Sam tries to hide a smile as he kicks Dean under the table, but Dean is undeterred. "Speaking of fifteen, you still haven't told me what you want for your birthday. Fess up. You want a date with a hooker, don't you? I can't promise you I can find one that would be willing to sleep with you, but if you don't mind a missing leg or two, I could probably help you out."

Their waitress happens to choose that moment to bring their plates, and the look of horror on her face as she hears what Dean said is almost worth the price of admission. She leaves their plates and utensils on the table in a clatter and hurries away. 

"Dean! You probably scarred her for life, just now."

"Eh, I bet she's heard worse. You don't work at Big Pepe's without learning a thing or two about life," Dean nods sagely.

Sam snorts and digs into his Gasmaster special.

***************************

The rest of the weekend and following week go by as they usually do, with Dean splitting his time between his work at the garage, the landscaping business, and his dancing at the club, squeezing in a few hours of sleep each night. Once again, he's grateful for the hectic schedule because it keeps him from worrying too much about Sam and from having a big epic freakout about Cas.

As much as he may want to take the initiative and ask Castiel out, he is still of a mind to let the other man make the first move. He's not going to risk losing his job and/or losing a good customer on the hope that said customer draws hearts around his name and wants to be his true love forever, or some shit like that. Dean has done as much as he can within the constraints of his job to give them quality time together, so now it's up to Cas to make anything else beyond that happen.

That being said, Dean _has_ decided that Cas hasn't really gotten his money's worth on a couple of their nights together. Between Cas's bad night and Dean's own, that's two dances Cas has paid for that he hasn't received. So, Dean's thought up a way to make it up to him, if he has the nerve to go through with it. He tells himself it's the least he can do for such a loyal customer, but he knows deep down he's not doing it for that reason. And he's pretty sure Cas will see through the ruse, as well, but he can't bring himself to care.

He wishes he had the nerve to take things even further, break those last remaining club restrictions, but he can't do it just yet. Once that's done, there's no going back for him and Cas, no more pretending that this is just a VIP dance and nothing more, and that thought scares the shit out of him.

After his last VIP customer that Wednesday night, Dean pulls the leather chair around to sit across from the sofa as he's straightening up the room for his session with Castiel. Once he's done, he chooses a playlist on his iPod that he doesn't use often, a mix of dark, trip-hop music, with Massive Attack, among other artists. He turns the volume up, wanting to drown out any other noises they may make in here, although he's fairly certain they'll be left alone no matter what. Ash is a good guy, always willing to help Dean pull one over on Crowley.

He settles down on the couch, shifts until he's more comfortable, legs splayed open. He's grateful that he's in scrubs again tonight, as he's always enjoyed the comfort of this costume as opposed to some of his more elaborate ones. He's nervous enough as it is without the added annoyance of tight, itchy fabric or buckles to have to work his way out of.

He stares at the closed door, waiting for Castiel to open it. He wonders what the other man will be wearing, if he'll surprise Dean this time and be wearing something different than his usual trench coat and suit. As he's pondering what Cas would look like in some faded jeans and a t-shirt, the door opens, and Castiel takes a couple of steps in, looking at the spot where the leather chair usually is with a frown on his face.

Dean clears his throat, and Castiel turns to his right, eyebrows raising slightly as he notices Dean sitting on the couch. He closes the door behind him and takes the few steps towards Dean.

"Hello, Dean."

"Hey, Cas," Dean smiles, amused by how formal and solemn Cas always sounds when he first greets him. "So, uh, have a seat on the chair." He waves his hand out weakly, as if he's Vanna fucking White revealing the answers to Castiel's obvious question of what's going on here. "I thought we'd try something different tonight. If you're game, that is."

Castiel sits down in the chair across from Dean, his head titled as he considers Dean's words. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well…uh," Dean fumbles out, dry-mouthed all of a sudden. "I was feeling kinda bad. About you having paid for dances a couple times when I ended up not dancing for you, and—"

"Dean, I don't mind that at all, I _enjoyed_ those nights—"

"Yeah, Cas, I know, you told me before that you didn't mind. But, well, I hate feeling like I owe somebody somethin', and besides, uh…" Dean feels like an utter creep saying this, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "…I kinda _want_ to do this. I think you might too, once you hear me out."

Castiel squints at him, eyebrows furrowed in that way that he does that pretty much turns Dean into a ridiculous puddle of goo. "Alright. What were you thinking of doing?"

Dean rubs his palms along his pants, surprised not to see streaks of sweat on the fabric, given how nervous he is right now. "I want you to tell me what you'd like to do to me, if we were allowed to touch each other," he says, voice hoarse.

Castiel's eyes widen, his head jerking back almost as if he'd been slapped. “I...I don't really understand what you're proposing...”

Clearing his throat, Dean tries to think of a better way to explain it. “You watch pornos, right? Surely you do.”

Castiel huffs. “Of course I do. I frequent various gay blogs on Tumblr, as well.”

“Uhhh, what's 'Tumble'?”Dean squints, not wanting to stray from the topic at hand, but unable to resist. “Actually, never mind, that's not the point.” He sits up straight, smiling slyly. “Haven't you ever seen a porno where one person tells the other person what to do?”

Castiel stares down at Dean's shoes, deep in thought as he bites his lip, leaving it all plump and pink. “I did see one where a fireman ordered a pizza, and was unable to pay the delivery man. He gave him quite explicit instructions on how to pay through sexual favors.”

“That's kind of what I'm talking about here, except this isn't 'payment' for anything, exactly,” Dean chuckles.

"That's…I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with—"

"Cas," Dean interrupts, leaning forward to make eye contact with the man. Dean waits patiently as Castiel's eyes dart around the room, but when they finally fall on Dean they remain locked in his gaze. "Cas, I know you don't like doing anything spontaneous and anything that you haven't prepared for, but this is me. It's just me and you, here in this room. You've been here a few times now, you've gotten to know me, probably even more than either one of us had expected, right? So, it's just us."

Dean spares a moment to lick his lips, not meaning to distract Castiel, but when he sees the man's eyes follow the movement and darken, his breath speeding up, it gives him the courage to go on. Cas _wants_ this, just as much as he does. He just doesn't realize it yet.

"And Cas, I don't know about you, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you all week." Dean watches as Castiel's eyes widen again, but this time Dean doesn't see fear there. All he sees is curiosity and maybe a little bit of hope, which does things to Dean's stomach that he thought only should happen to twelve year olds at their first dance.

"So, this isn't just for you, or just for what I think is owed to you. This is for me, too. It's because I want it." Dean waits to let that sink in, before adding with a whisper, "Maybe even more than you."

Castiel stares at him, blue eyes fathomless, and Dean holds his breath, praying that he hasn't overstepped his bounds and made himself out to be a giant douchebag. Just as he's about to look away and start apologizing, Castiel whispers, "You could never want it more than I do."

Dean can feel his pulse quicken at the words, and a tingle of sheer delight zings through him so energetically he wonders if he might have lit up. _He wants this_ , he celebrates, but on the outside he tamps his joy down, lets a slow, easy smile spread across his face as he leans back on the couch. "So, Cas, if you could have your way with me right now, what would you like to do first?"

Castiel takes a deep breath, letting his gaze follow the length of Dean's body, gliding slowly down to his feet and back up again, taking in his arms and shoulders, before finding his way back to Dean's lips. Dean can't help but shiver as it happens, swearing to himself that he can almost feel the ghost of Cas's fingers as he looks him over.

"I believe that first I would…want you to take off your shoes and socks, so that you could be more comfortable," Cas replies, hesitantly.

And that's – well, that's a bit of a surprise, but whatever. Dude likes to take things slow, obviously. "Okay," Dean says, reaching down to pull off his shoes and socks. As he's setting them along the side of the couch, he looks up when he hears Castiel clear his throat.

"What would you do to _me_ , Dean?" he whispers. "I mean…if we could touch?"

Dean can feel his heart skip a beat at the words. This wasn't on the agenda for tonight, but he's never been one who couldn't roll with the punches, so to speak. The very thought of getting to tell Castiel how and where to touch himself while he's watching makes his mouth water, and his dick gives a little twitch of interest in the proceedings as well.

He looks back up at Castiel with a small smile. "I'd probably take your shoes and socks off, too. Just so we'd be on equal footing."

Castiel huffs at Dean's pun as he moves to shuck off his shoes. Once his feet are bare, Dean takes a moment to look them over. He's surprised at how attractive he finds them, wondering if there is anything about this man that he _won't_ find a turn-on. "You've got some good-lookin' feet, Cas. I've never been much of a foot guy, but yours are especially nice."

Castiel wiggles his toes and smirks, but otherwise remains silent, making Dean wonder if maybe he just made himself look like some kind of perv. He decides to get them focusing on something else. "So, uh what would you do next?"

After considering Dean him for several seconds, Castiel says, "I would kiss you. I'd lick along your mouth, and suck your bottom lip between my teeth." He gazes at Dean unblinkingly. "And you?"

Dean licks his lips, grinning as Castiel tracks the movement and licks his own lips in response. "I'd kiss you back," Dean says, low and a little rough. "I'd bite your upper lip, make it all red and swollen, and slide my tongue in beside yours, tease it around in there."

Dean watches as Castiel bites his upper lip, mimicking what Dean would do. He smirks and does the same for Cas, catching his lower lip between his teeth and staring back at him.

Castiel's eyes travel to Dean's jaw and neck. "I believe that next I would kiss my way to your jaw and along your neck," he breathes, "and then pull your shirt over your head and off, so that I could touch and kiss your chest."

Dean grabs the hem of his scrub shirt and slowly begins pulling it up along his chest. He watches Castiel's face as he does so, pleased to see the man's eyes darken again as Dean's stomach and chest are revealed. His eyes rove across the expanse of skin, staring at Dean's freckles as if he's cataloguing the position of each and every one. Dean patiently waits as Castiel continues to study him, feeling exposed in a way that he hasn't in quite a while – which, for _his_ job, is really saying something.

"I think I'd play with your nipples, licking and biting them until they're pink and hard for me." Castiel meets Dean's gaze, eyelids lowered as he murmurs, "Play with your nipples for me, Dean."

And that's, _oh fuck_ , that's some _hot shit_ right there, and Castiel seems to have gotten over any reservations he may have had with this little game pretty damn quickly. Dean slides his hands up his stomach and chest slowly, and when he reaches his nipples he takes each bud between fingers and thumbs, tweaking and squeezing them. He bites his bottom lip again, eyes closing to the sensation, as he feels his dick pulse inside his g-string.

When he opens his eyes, he finds Castiel grasping the arms of the chair as he's watching Dean, lips parted. "I think I need you to take your jacket off, Cas. Shirt, too," Dean says.

Castiel looks up and holds Dean's stare, nodding slowly as he twists himself out of his jacket. They continue to look at one another as Castiel unbuttons his shirt, Dean still massaging his chest and rubbing his nipples. 

Once the shirt is gone and Castiel is bare-chested, Dean whispers under his breath, "Jesus fucking Christ." Cas is broad-shouldered and well-muscled, not in a big _hard-body_ way, but lean and tight, like a swimmer or a runner. His skin is pale, aside from a freckle here and there, and Dean can just tell that if he reached out and trailed a finger along Castiel's torso, it would feel like silk. He almost gives in right then, almost says, _to hell with the rules_ , and crawls his way into Castiel's lap to take, and touch, and taste. But instead, he clenches a fist and squeezes his eyes shut to regain some composure before telling Castiel what to do next.

"I would suck and bite your nipples until I had you moaning and panting underneath me," he whispers. "And I'd fit your thigh between my legs so I could work my cock against you as I'm doing it."

Castiel has a hand on each thigh, and as Dean speaks he grips them tightly, knuckles going white from the pressure. 

"Play with your nipples, Cas," Dean instructs him softly. "Lick your fingers, then play with your nipples…squeeze them, pinch them. Pretend it's my mouth doing it to you."

With a visible gulp, Castiel lifts his hands, sticking his tongue out to lick his thumbs and index fingers. He hisses as he takes each nipple between wet fingers, and spreads saliva across the hardening buds. He moans as he shifts in his seat, widening his legs and scooting further down in the chair. Dean curses to himself as he notices the growing bulge in the man's pants, and he shifts uncomfortably as his own erection strains to be released.

Opening his eyes, Castiel whispers hoarsely, "Take your pants off, Dean."

 _Oh, thank fuck_ , Dean thinks to himself. It's about time they move this along, he was afraid he'd jizz in his scrubs at this rate. He loosens the drawstring and hooks his thumbs under the waistband. He watches Castiel's face as he lifts his ass to pull the pants down his thighs, taking pleasure in the way the other man's eyes widen as he gets a glimpse of Dean's thong-covered crotch. At this point, Dean's dick is hard and leaking pre-come, the head peeking brazenly out of the top of the tight fabric after Dean repositions things to make himself more comfortable.

Dean leans back on the couch, scooting himself down and widening his legs. The urge to touch himself, take his cock in hand and stroke, is damn near irresistible, but he bites his tongue and clenches a fist, waiting for his next instruction.

Castiel stares at Dean's crotch, mouth slightly open as his breathing becomes more shallow. He's got some pretty impressive tenting action going on in his pants now, and he slides a hand along his thigh to press the heel of his hand against the bulge.

"Ah ah ah," Dean chides. "No touching until I say so."

Castiel lets loose a frustrated sigh, but pulls his hand away nevertheless, and Dean chuckles. "Why don't you go ahead and take off your pants, relieve some of that pressure."

The other man swiftly unbuttons and unzips his pants, pulling them down to reveal thighs Dean knows would be rock-hard under his fingers. He's wearing snug-fitting boxers, a blue that almost matches his eyes. They stare at each other, drinking the sight of each other in, taking their time to familiarize themselves with the other's body through sight.

After steadying his voice, Dean asks, "So, what would you do next, Cas? Tell me what to do, tell me what you want."

Castiel takes several shallow breaths before saying, "I'd kiss you again. I'd thread my fingers through your hair as I kiss you, and slide my other hand under your thong, wrap my fingers around your cock, get a feel for you, squeeze you—"

"Tell me to do it, Cas," Dean jumps in. " _Say it_."

His voice shaking a little, Castiel complies. "Pull your cock out, Dean…let me see you, I want to watch you touch yourself—"

"Fuck yeah, Cas. Like this? Is this what you wanna see?" Dean pulls his g-string down, his dick thumping against his stomach once it's freed. The crown is red and flushed, slick with pre-come, and Dean swirls his thumb and fingers in it before sliding them down along the shaft, stroking loosely. He watches Castiel squirm in his seat, groaning with each stroke Dean makes, and it's so fucking hot Dean can't even think straight anymore. All he can think is that he needs to see Cas touching himself, as well.

"Take your dick out, Cas," he says huskily. "I need to see it, I need to see how hard you are for me."

Castiel nods rapidly, wordlessly, slides the waistband down, freeing his cock from the constraints. It springs up rigid, the tip swollen and red, the shaft slightly curved. It's longer than Dean's dick, though not as thick, but it's thick enough Dean can't help but wonder at how perfectly it'd fit in his mouth, how snug it might fit inside his ass, and he has to close his eyes, breathe through the curling sensation in his balls. He snaps his lids open again as the urge to blow his load subsides, sees that Cas's dick is leaving a glistening smear of wetness against his lower belly. Dean licks his lips, wishes he could taste it, and he feels a certain satisfaction when he sees it twitch like it's beckoning him closer. Castiel is watching his every move, and the sense of power that Dean feels with the knowledge that just licking his lips can make the other man's dick throb with need leaves him heady with breathless excitement.

"How about smearing that jizz off the head of your cock, clean it up for me?" Dean dares. "I wanna watch you suck that off your fingers." 

A shaky sigh escapes Castiel's lips as he swirls two fingers along the tip of his dick, and then brings them up to his mouth. When he sticks his tongue out to slide it along the skin, staring at Dean while he tastes the liquid and sucks on his fingertips, Dean moans so loudly he wouldn't be surprised if the whole damned club heard it.

"Oh fuck, Cas, oh god," he groans, hand stripping his own shaft in a fast, unforgiving rhythm. "Fuck your fist for me, pretend it's my mouth or my ass, whatever you want it to be, whatever you need."

Castiel takes his cock in hand, wrapping wet fingers around the shaft and pumping slowly. He bites his bottom lip, eyelids fluttering as he seems to struggle to keep his focus on Dean's own actions. They both gaze at each other, quiet except for occasional whimpers, and groans, and the obscene slap of skin on skin as they jack themselves off.

Castiel licks his lips, eyeing Dean's hand moving slickly along his length. "If I could touch you right now, Dean," he ventures, "I'd have you suck on my fingers…get them wet so I can slide them inside you." His gaze travels up the length of Dean's body, meeting his stare before murmuring, "Fuck yourself with your fingers for me, Dean."

Dean can feel his eyes go wide with shock as he meets Castiel's half-lidded gaze. They stare at each other for several seconds before Castiel offers demurely, “I learned that from the pizza man.”

Dean huffs in laughter as he thinks to himself _Ohdeargodinheaven_. Who knew that Castiel was such a kinky bastard? Dean lifts the hand not currently stripping his cock raw and sucks on three of his fingers, giving Cas his best _come and get it big boy_ look before pulling a leg up to rest the heel of his foot on the couch. He squirms in his seat a bit, trying to give himself a good angle to do this while giving Cas a good view of him doing his bidding at the same time. The way he settles himself spreads his butt cheeks apart enough that he's pretty sure Castiel has a front row seat to all his junk as well as quite possibly all of his insides, but judging by the hazy, ecstatic expression on Cas's face, he's pretty pleased with what he's seeing.

Dean closes his eyes and inhales, breathing deeply and psyching himself up for this, before exhaling slowly. As he exhales, he slides one slick finger past the rim of his hole, grunting at the intrusion. He hears Castiel gasp, and opens his eyes to find the man swallowing hard, gaze transfixed on Dean's finger pumping slowly in and out of his hole. He's stopped jerking himself off and is squeezing the base of his shaft instead, and Dean feels a sudden wave of victory when he realizes Castiel almost came just from watching one finger slide home.

So, he figures, _I'm gonna rock this dude's world_. He takes another deep breath before sliding a second finger in, both digits delving even deeper than before. Castiel lets out a strangled moan that's almost a cry, eyes wide as he watches Dean's fingers disappear inside himself. Dean fucks himself deeper, trying to find his prostate to make this feel that much better, and on the fourth swipe he finds the sweet spot. He gasps as he pushes against it, and pants as he watches Castiel bite his lip. He tries several times to find his voice before saying hoarsely, "Cas, this is you fucking me right now. Wrap those fingers around your cock and feel how tight I am for you, how fucking tight and hot I am, just for you." 

Dean watches as Castiel does as he's told, long fingers circling his cock, and fists himself. The man's eyes stay on Dean's hole, matching the pace of Dean's fingers pumping in and out, and Dean begins to stroke his own dick in earnest now, knowing that he's not going to last much longer with this view and the way he keeps fingering his prostate.

"Oh, Dean…you're so beautiful, so fucking…oh god," Castiel moans, fist moving faster as he continues to watch.

"Yeah, Cas, just like that, don't stop fucking those fingers, so fucking gorgeous, wanna suck your come off those fingers, oh fuck," Dean groans. He can't stop babbling, he knows he sounds ridiculous, but he's so fucking close, he wants to watch Cas come first, but he's just so fucking close.

"If I were fucking you right now I would grip your hips tight, push my cock in deep, and make you come for me," Cas stutters, and Dean whimpers as Cas licks his lips. "Come for me, Dean."

Dean cries out, fireworks exploding behind closed eyelids as he spurts what feels like about ten gallons of jizz all over his stomach and chest. He didn't even realize he was waiting for permission until Cas gave it to him. He opens his eyes to see Castiel staring at him, panting as he fists his erection.

"Cas, if you were fucking me, right now I'd be squeezing that hard cock with my ass, milking it until you couldn't take it anymore," Dean says. "I wanna watch you come, Cas."

Castiel whimpers, hand moving faster and more erratic along his shaft. The man bites his lip hard as he continues to stare after Dean, watching him stroke himself lazily through the aftershocks of his orgasm. When Dean slicks a finger through his own jizz and brings it up to his mouth, tongue flicking out to taste it, Castiel lets loose a shout and releases himself, strings of come coating his stomach.

Dean smiles to himself as Castiel closes his eyes and leans his head along the back of his chair, hand idly working himself through his climax. He's feeling pretty damn proud of himself for this idea. Now he won't ever have to worry that he owes Cas for dances he'd paid for but hadn't received, at the very least.

Both men are quiet for several minutes as they recover. Dean listens to the music playing on the speakers from his iPod, wondering how long they've been here, oblivious to the rest of the goings-on in the club. The longer they sit there, though, the colder and stickier Dean begins to feel, and he can imagine Castiel is probably feeling similar.

He clears his throat and opens his eyes, amused to see Castiel still lying back with his eyes closed, looking for all the world like he passed out. When Dean reaches for his g-string on the floor, he notices Cas opening one eye to watch him. They don't say a word as Dean slips the thong back on, but Cas does pull his boxers back up his thighs, hissing as the fabric catches on his over-sensitized flesh.

Once Dean has pulled his pants back on, both men lean back in their seats, reluctant to abandon the scene or each other. Or at least Dean's feeling reluctant – for all he knows, Cas could just be a lazy fuck who can't move after a particularly awesome jerk-off session. Dean hopes Cas is feeling the same way about him as he is about Cas, but then again, maybe it's better if he doesn't because that way lies a whole hell of a lot of complications.

Castiel raises his head and opens his eyes, glance moving across the room. They look at each other every few seconds but look away quickly, both seeming to be absurdly shy, all of the sudden. After the third time of catching each other looking, a small smile erupts on Cas's face, and Dean blushes and smiles in response.

"Oh, shut up," he says.

Castiel full on grins at that. "What? I didn't say anything."

"Yeah, but you were looking all smug over there."

"Oh, and you don't look like the cat who got the cream with that look on _your_ face?"

"…Point taken," Dean replies, smirking as he lets his gaze wander along Castiel's body.

Castiel reaches for his socks and begins tugging them on. "So, I suppose I'll see you next week?"

Dean can feel his smile slip a tiny bit, but he masks it as best as he can. "Yep. Same time, same place." He stamps down the disappointment of being reminded that this is just a business transaction, like any other VIP dance. His stomach churns a little at the thought of what tonight's exploits make him, but he ignores it. 

He stands up to follow Castiel to the door and see him out. The man stops as he reaches it and turns around to face Dean. 

"Thank you, Dean. For tonight. You didn't owe me anything, but I appreciate it nonetheless." Castiel's mouth opens and closes several times, as if he's trying to decide what to say next. "I really enjoyed what happened tonight, and I…I won't soon forget it."

His eyes are warm and fond as they stare back at Dean, and for a moment, Dean is able to pretend that they're just two guys who really like each other saying goodbye after an epic night together. "Yeah, I won't either, Cas. Be careful getting home," He pauses, and _fuck_ he can't not say it. "I can't wait to see you next week."

It comes out tentative, and a momentary flash of what looks to be surprise mixed with what Dean wants to think is hope flits across Castiel's face before he schools his expression to something more neutral.

"And neither can I. Take care, Dean."

"You too, Cas."

***************************


	8. Chapter 8

On Thursday, the cloud nine feeling that buoys Castiel through his morning with a stupid grin on his face and butterflies in his stomach turns into anxiety by mid-afternoon, as his happiness devolves into the sense that he's too exposed. He feels more vulnerable than he has felt in a long time. Dean never fails to surprise him, to put him on edge and force him to confront things about himself that he's ignored for so long. Dean makes him _feel_ , makes him hope and want things for himself that he'd given up wanting long ago, and now that their odd relationship has stepped up a degree, the thought of it leaves Castiel adrift in worry and fear. It isn't helped by the hellish ordeal of a fire alarm and an evacuation of the whole building that leaves him frozen with terror outside, trapped in a milling, chattering, _too-big, too-busy, too-much-to-bear_ crowd of residents while the local fire department checks every apartment.

Once back inside he slams the door behind him, slides down it and sits there for along time, hugging his knees, his clothes saturated in sweat and his teeth chattering. After an hour, he pushes up and stumbles to his bed, crawls under the covers, where it's small and secure, squeezing his eyes shut against the world.

The next day, he opens the blinds and reels back from the window, from the vastness outside, before scrabbling for the cord and shrouding the apartment in gloom and manageable boundaries again. He breathes deep through the sudden nausea and faintness, the tremors, and the pain in his chest as his heart hammers out its alarm. Once he's calmer, he tells himself he was bound to relapse at some point, given the circumstances. On the road to recovery, no one is immune to setbacks. But that doesn't mean Castiel can't be frustrated with himself, either. He's been feeling proud of himself for the advances he's made and how far he's come, and now he feels as if he's taken five steps back.

The following Wednesday, he has to force himself to leave his home. The only thing that succeeds in pushing him out the door is the thought of Dean being disappointed or confused if he fails to show up for their weekly appointment. He feels ill by the time he reaches the club, but as he sits in the VIP room, waiting for Dean, he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that at least he made it outside his apartment once again, and he's here now. He spares a minute to wonder why Dean isn't already in the room and waiting for him when the door opens and Dean walks in. His grin is quick and as genuine as always, and it gives Castiel a little skip in his stomach that isn't at all like the panic-stricken churning he's been feeling all week.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says. "Sorry I kept you waiting, Sammy called and I kinda lost track of time."

Castiel smiles at the fond look Dean gets in his eyes when he talks about his little brother. "How is Sam? Is his arm healing properly?"

Dean grins. "Oh yeah, he's a tough little shit. He'll probably have outgrown that cast before the doc cuts it off." He walks over to the speakers, hooking up his iPod before looking over his shoulder to ask, "So, uh, what did you have in mind for tonight? I didn't have anything special planned, so…"

He lets his words trail off, obviously waiting for Castiel to speak up, but Castiel hesitates. As much as he likes Dean, and as attracted as he is to the man, the thought of being close to him right now is terrifying. Which only serves to frustrate Castiel because of his recent regression, the reminder of which shreds his nerves even more thoroughly. If he's not careful, he could very well spiral into another panic attack, and that's the last thing he wants to do here, right in front of Dean.

He swallows, rallies, but his voice still comes out a little faint. "I…if you don't mind, do you think maybe we could just talk for a bit?"

The slightly worried look on Dean's face doesn't make Castiel feel any less like a fool, but he continues on. "I'm just – I'm really tired, and I've not had a great week as far as my… my _phobias_ are concerned. So I'm not sure how, uh, _receptive_ I would be tonight." He inwardly cringes at hearing himself speak those last words, but the look on Dean's face is one of concern and understanding. 

"Yeah, sure, Cas. I like talking." Dean grabs the chair leaning up against the opposite wall, setting it down in front of Cas and straddling it. "So, uh, what's happened that's made you have such a bad week? Anything I can help with?"

Castiel's heart skips a beat with the question, as well as with the look of genuine concern on Dean's face. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm afraid this is just a typical, expected regression that happens from time to time. I just need to work through it myself."

Dean nods slowly. "Well, you being here now is a good sign, right?" he prompts. "If you were sucking at it, you probably wouldn't have been able to leave the house, yeah?"

A forced smile makes its way across Castiel's lips. "True, I just sometimes get so frustrated with myself." He remembers how his feet took root to the ground outside his building, how his whole body locked rigid with dread as humanity thronged around him, and as mortifying as the recollection is, he can't help telling Dean. "The fire alarm went off at my place, we all had to leave," he says quietly, and he feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment at how foolish it must sound. "The crush of people, it was…I froze." He clenches his fists at the memory. "If I have that much trouble just standing outside my home, if I have to force myself to travel ten minutes from there to see you, it's doubtful I'd ever be able to go on a proper trip."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You had to force yourself to come visit me?" he teases gently, and Castiel feels some of his tension drain away at the twinkle in Dean's eyes as Dean goes on. "And a proper trip? You wantin' to go anywhere special, then?" 

At once Castiel's mind is full of images: cultures, landmarks, cities, incredible journeys to fantastic destinations. "I'd like to travel the world," he sighs. "Since I was young, I've always dreamed of seeing foreign places – India, Africa, South America, Europe. And Hawaii, for some reason. One fantasy I've always had is imagining myself standing on a Hawaiian beach, staring out at the water with the sand between my toes."

When Castiel glances at Dean, there is a faraway look on the other man's face. 

"Wow," Dean murmurs. "Those are some nice dreams, Cas."

"Yes, but at the rate I'm going, that's all they'll ever be. Unattainable dreams." Castiel snorts. "I have wanderlust, but I can't wander anywhere."

Dean clears his throat, looking down at the floor between them. "I've never even let myself dream about going to places like that. There's no point."

Castiel squints at him. "Why is that?"

Dean grimaces. "Well, between just trying to get by from day to day and me being scared of flying, I never had reason to think I'd ever be able to go anywhere fancy like that. Hell, I consider myself lucky to be able to go to the lake for a day," he says, shrugging.

"You have a fear of flying?" Castiel huffs.

Dean levels a stare at him. "Hey, don't be laughing at me. Flying is _unnatural_. These huge cylinders of metal that weigh tons, and we're expected to climb inside them and let them fly us up miles into the air and _trust_ that? It's insane that more people _aren't_ terrified." He narrows his eyes. "With all the other things you got going on, how come you're not afraid of it?"

Castiel thinks on the question a moment before answering. "I've not gone flying since I developed my issues, but as a child I did enjoy it very much. There's a sense of freedom in it, this invigorating feeling of how, if humans can figure out a way to do this, then anything is possible." 

He stares into the space over Dean's shoulder as he continues. "There's this moment, as the plane is descending, when the engines aren't as loud, and you can feel the plane struggling to slow down. And you get closer and closer to the ground, it feels as though you're floating above the trees and buildings, so effortlessly, almost as if you had wings yourself…"

Castiel shrugs awkwardly, turning his attention back to Dean. "I may feel differently about it if I ever manage to attempt traveling again, I don't know. But no, flying is one of the most minor concerns I have about traveling."

Dean stares at him for several seconds, before a wistful smile curls up his lips. "Well, even if I got up the nerve to try it, there's no way I could afford going on a trip anytime soon. Between saving up for Sam's college, and paying rent, and needing money for a car or to start rebuilding my dad's car, I just…I doubt I'll ever be able to go anywhere fancy."

Dean bites his lip and scrubs at the back of his neck, seemingly debating telling Castiel something else. "Also, I, uh…I kinda got it in my head a few years ago that I might want to try going to school to be a paramedic." He glances up at Castiel, but looks away quickly. "I mean, I'm sure I'm not smart enough for it or anything, but still. I just…when me and Sammy and my dad were in that car wreck, when the paramedics showed up, they were like fuckin' superheroes. They saved me and Sam, and I always was kind of in awe of them after that. Made me want to be like them, savin' people, y'know?"

He shrugs, and Castiel watches, utterly charmed, as a pink flush spreads across the man's cheeks. "I think you'd be wonderful as a paramedic, Dean," he says. "There's a warmth to you, a compassion you exude that's very comforting to others." 

Castiel is pleased to see the effect that his words seem to be having on Dean. The man blushes even further, his eyes cast downward as he tries not to smile. "And as for fearing that you're not smart enough, I won't have you speaking badly of yourself like that, not around me. Dean, you're an extremely intelligent man. You are capable, you are quick-witted, and your common sense and worldliness are second to none. If I were ever so unfortunate as to find myself in need of a paramedic, I can't imagine anyone I'd rather have responsible for my life and well being than you."

They sit in silence for a minute as Dean seems to struggle to find a reply. He clears his throat a couple times before answering. "Thanks, Cas. You hear enough people telling you you're worthless and that you're a dumb shit enough times, you start to believe it. 'S nice to know I got somebody in my corner. Besides Sammy, of course."

Castiel had suspected as much, but hearing that Dean has been told these things for a large part of his life breaks his heart, nonetheless. How someone could live the kind of life that he has lived and still turn out to be such a caring, compassionate person is a mystery. "I'll always be in your corner, Dean," he says impulsively, and at the quick look Dean shoots him, he hastens to add, "so to speak. I mean, as much as one in these circumstances can be, I suppose…"

Castiel lets his words trail off, observing the flash of some unreadable emotion across Dean's face. He's said something wrong, Castiel knows that much, but before he can decipher what exactly it was, Dean changes the subject.

"So uh, what else do you like to do, besides write and, I guess, look at travel stuff? Any hobbies?"

Castiel frowns. "It's not very easy to have a hobby when you're scared to leave your house. But I do like to run on my treadmill." He stares at his hands, contemplating what else he likes to do with his free time. "I enjoy crossword puzzles. And learning different languages. And – plants."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. "Plants? Is that code for something?"

Castiel huffs. "No, it's not _code_. I enjoy reading about plants, about gardening. I think I'd enjoy having my own garden someday, if I ever have a yard or plot and can get past my issues."

"Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess," Dean says, smiling. "I'm kind of a hands-on guy, myself."

Castiel tilts his head as he studies Dean. "How so? What do you enjoy doing?"

"Eh, I don't have much down-time. But I like to run, too, when I get a chance. I have to work out pretty often because of the dancing, but I don't really like it. I do like running, though. Makes me feel free." Dean shrugs. "I like working on cars, too. And I do a bit of reading, when I get a chance."

Intrigued, Castiel asks, "Oh, you read? Who's your favorite author?"

Dean shakes his head. "I don't get a chance to read much, really. I guess I like Vonnegut a lot. And Stephen King, he's cool."

"Ah yes, those are both wonderful authors," Castiel nods.

"And I uh, I checked one of your books out of the library last weekend, but I haven't had a chance to start it yet," Dean says.

Castiel's stomach flips at the thought of Dean reading his words. He's not usually one to care whether someone likes his stories, but it suddenly feels very important to him that Dean enjoys what he's written. "I hope you like it," he fumbles out. "But please don't feel obliged to read it just because I wrote it."

"Heh, don't worry, if I wasn't interested I wouldn't have bothered. I've never been able to force myself to read something I don't want to, s'one reason I did so bad in school." Dean pauses long enough for Castiel's eyes to return his gaze, and continues. "I _wanted_ to read it, man. The whole angel-warrior thing sounds badass."

Castiel smiles. "I hope it doesn't disappoint, then."

Returning the smile, Dean replies, "I'm sure it won't."

They continue on for another hour, Dean talking about his brother and some of the more amusing and embarrassing stories he has of him, before Castiel realizes it's getting late. He's aware that Dean will have to wake early in the morning for his job at the garage, but he's also aware Dean probably wouldn't try to end their conversation himself, given how he always seems to feel obligated to be worth Castiel's money. So, feigning a yawn, he murmurs, "I imagine it's getting rather late. I need to wake early in the morning for an online meeting with my editor, so I suppose I should be leaving." He'd feel guilty for the lie, but since it's to get Dean home and sleeping at a decent time, he figures it's worth it.

The look of disappointment that flits across Dean's face _does_ make Castiel feel guilty, though. "Okay, sure. I guess I should be leaving soon, too. Maybe I can get an extra hour or so of sleep tonight, for once."

Dean stands and makes his way to the door as Castiel shrugs on his trenchcoat. When they meet at the door, they stand and stare at each other for several seconds before Dean lets loose a breath and steps forward, wrapping his arms around Castiel. 

Castiel is stunned for a moment, not expecting the hug, and he waits for the panic to set in, the anxiety of being so unexpectedly close to someone. He's surprised to realize that he feels no distress, but instead feels as if another piece to some unknown puzzle has fallen into place. Being in Dean's arms feels familiar and _right_.

Castiel wraps his own arms around Dean's shoulders awkwardly, still not sure about how much he's allowed to touch, not sure if he should even be concerned about the club's stupid rules right now. At the movement, he feels Dean's body relax, his arms pulling Castiel tighter around his waist. Castiel sighs, his body melting against Dean. He hooks his chin over Dean's shoulder and closes his eyes, fingers stroking circles between Dean's shoulder blades. He feels Dean lay a cheek on his shoulder, and shivers at the tiny puffs of warm air against his neck.

Castiel isn't quite sure just how long they stand there wrapped around each other, but laughter outside the hallway breaks them out of the moment. Dean squeezes him tight one last time before pulling away, hands lingering on Castiel's hips as he whispers, "So, I guess I'll see you next week, right?"

Castiel places his hands on Dean's biceps, fingers playing loosely with the fabric of his sleeves. He watches Dean's eyes glance down at his lips, and it feels as if every nerve ending in his body tingles at the anticipation of Dean kissing him. "Yes, of course I'll be here next week, Dean," he breathes. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Dean licks his own lips, drawing Castiel's gaze to his mouth. Castiel's pulse quickens as Dean's lips part, and he quickly looks up to Dean's eyes, finding his gaze still on Castiel's mouth. Dean licks his lips again, and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. Castiel can feel them both swaying, his own breath coming just as fast as Dean's, but just as Dean begins to lean forward, eyes still transfixed on Castiel's mouth, there's a loud knock on the door.

"Hey, Dean! We're about to start up a poker game, if you're interested," Ash yells through the door.

Both men jump apart at the knock, almost as if they'd been struck by lightning. Castiel would have found it comical if he wasn't so enraged at being interrupted right as Dean was about to kiss him. He can't be sure, of course, that Dean was about to do it, but he would have bet all of his life savings on it just the same.

Dean blushes and looks down at the floor, hand scrubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, no thanks, Ash. Think I'm gonna head home soon."

"Heh, you're loss. I'm pretty sure Ed's gonna play, and his dad just gave him access to his trust fund, so easy pickins."

"Yeah, thanks, Ash." Dean glances quickly at Castiel before reaching for the doorknob. "So, uh, have a good week, okay?"

Castiel silently curses to himself as he nods and smiles at Dean. "Yes, you as well, Dean."

As he walks out the door, he allows himself to lean into the touch of Dean's hand along the small of his back, warmth seeping into his skin, before walking down the hall.

***************************

That Saturday, Dean takes Sam out for their weekly adventures and also to celebrate his little brother's birthday. Since Sam never told him what he wanted for his birthday, Dean settled on buying him a Kindle and a giftcard for e-books. He'd wanted to get him something more, but since the stubborn kid wouldn't 'fess up to anything he wanted, Dean figured he'd wait and see if he could find out anything else he wanted later on.

They return to Big Pepe's for lunch, and take a booth by the window, enjoying the sunshine even if the early summer rays are a bit too hot for them. Dean watches Sam fiddle around with his Kindle, getting excited about all the books he plans on reading. Even though it was a hastily purchased gift, Dean is pleased to see that he kinda struck gold with it.

As they're finishing up dessert, Sam glances out the window and frowns. "Dean, look."

Dean turns his head, looking out the window to see a skinny, matted little dog sniffing through a bag near the dumpster. He glances back at Sam to see a worried, upset look across his face.

"Do you think he's a stray?" Sam asks.

Dean looks back out at the dog, which doesn't seem to be having much luck finding anything it could eat. "I guess so, given how dirty he looks."

The waitress brings their check to the table, and she tracks Sam's gaze and clucks her tongue irritably. "What, is that mangy mutt back again? We can't keep it from tearing open our garbage bags."

Sam looks up at the waitress, face creasing up in anger. "He's _hungry_. He needs help."

The waitress rolls her eyes and saunters away and Sam smacks his hand down on the table "Dean, if you tip her I won't talk to you for a month."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, yeah, I wasn't planning on it. My food was cold and my soda was hot." He watches as Sam stares out at the dog, eyes looking suspiciously like they might be getting teary. _Well, shit_ , Dean thinks to himself. _Here's the something more I could get him for his birthday_. Problem is, though, that there is no way his landlord will let him have a dog, and Dean's pretty damn sure Sammy's foster mom would have a hissy fit if Sam ever brought one home.

But, at the very least, they can take it to a vet, get it checked out, and maybe find a shelter to take it in and re-home it. Dean sighs. "Hey Sammy, why don't you go out there and see if it'll come to you while I get the bill settled?"

Sam's head turns quickly, hope written across his face. "Really?"

"Yeah, if it'll come to you, maybe we can find a vet to look it over."

"Will you keep it?"

"No, you know what a douche my landlord is. There's no way I could have a dog."

"But, I'm pretty sure Shirley won't let me have it, either."

Dean's heart aches at the disappointment in Sam's voice. "Sorry, kiddo," he says. "We'll just have to see if the vet can take it in, or if they know a shelter."

Sam looks down at his hands. "Yeah. I guess so."

Dean taps the table to get his brother's attention back. "But, you know, all this is pointless if you can't even get it to come to you or if it ends up biting your hand off. Go on out there and see what happens. I'll be out in a second."

He watches as Sam scoots out of the booth, pockets the abandoned Kindle for safe-keeping. He waits to observe through the window what happens when Sam approaches the dog, and his heart breaks a little more as Sam sits on the pavement and the dog wags its tail and jumps into his lap, licking his face. Sam laughs as the dog wriggles in his arms, and Dean has to wipe away a stupid tear that streaks down his stupid face.

Oh yeah. He's about to get sucker-punched by a little brother and a little dog.

***************************

The dog checks out fine at the vet's other than being really dirty and underweight. They check her teeth, pronounce her about two years old, and mutter something about testing her for worms and other parasites, and vaccinating her after they clean her up. The fluffed-up pup handed back to them an hour later is barely recognizable and cute as a button, and it hops right up into Sam's arms in a way that makes Dean's heart sink a little.

As he and Sam go to the front desk to check out, Dean tries to charm the receptionist. "So uh, I don't suppose you guys take in strays and find homes for them, do you?" he hints as he hands over his credit card.

The receptionist blushes at how closely Dean is leaning over the counter, but shakes her head. "We don't have room in our facility to house animals like that. But I can give you the names and numbers of a few shelters."

"Are they all no-kill shelters?" Sam asks from behind Dean.

The receptionist shakes her head again. "Not all of them, no."

"Well, we only want the numbers of the no-kill shelters," Sam says flatly.

Dean turns to look at his brother, and he curses to himself as he sees him clinging to the dog and whispering to it as he gives the woman a bitch-face to be proud of.

She doesn't seem to notice, smiles brightly, in fact. "Sure, I can give you those numbers. I doubt any of them will be answering their phones though, with it being Saturday and all."

 _Dammit_ , Dean thinks. He'd forgotten about that. He's not sure what he's going to do about this, and Sam is looking at him so damn imploringly. "Sammy, there's no way I can sneak it in my apartment, even just for the weekend," he says. "You know the landlord lives across the breezeway and he's a snoopy motherfucker."

Sam's eyes widen, and he bites his lip.

"He peeks through the blinds at me all the time," Dean tries. "I wouldn't be able to take it out for bathroom breaks without getting caught."

Goddammit, even the mutt is turning its own puppy-dog gaze on Dean now, liquid and sorrowful, as Sam cradles it closer. "I can't sneak her into Shirley's house for the weekend, Dean," Sam replies. 

And he's right, and Dean wouldn't put it past her or her asshole boyfriend to hit Sam, broken arm or not, or hurt the dog or just kick the dog out of the house. He rubs his fingers across his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes in thought.

"Sir?" the receptionist breaks in, a little frosty now. "I need you to sign here for me, please." 

Dean signs off on the credit card slip, can't help wincing at the numbers. He leads the way as they walk out of the clinic and to his borrowed car, Sam holding the furbag like a baby and crooning at her. As they slide into the car and slam their doors shut, Sam looks over at Dean, scrunching up his face as the dog licks at his chin.

"So, what are we gonna do, Dean? Shelters won't open until Monday."

Dean bites his lip and contemplates, watching as the dog wraps her paws around Sam's neck. His brother chuckles and leans into the embrace. 

"Hey look! She knows how to hug!"

"Maybe we should go to a park right now, let her run around and play for a bit so I can think," Dean finally says. Delaying the decision is about the best thing he can come up with for now.

They take her to a park a few minutes down the road, finding a tree with some shade for protection from the afternoon sun. Despite himself, Dean finds that he's quickly developing a soft spot for this dog. She's just so damn sweet, with her little tongue lolling out of her mouth as she sits down in front of them in the grass, staring at the both of them, eyes bright and happy. 

"Look, Dean, when she pants like that, it looks like she's smiling at us," Sam says, laughing. "We should name her, shouldn't we?"

Dean clenches a fist. "We can't get attached, Sammy."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Dude, you and I both know we're already dog-whipped. There's no point in pretending otherwise."

"I know, but naming her will make it worse. Won't it?" Dean sighs. "Sam, I want to keep her just as much as you do, trust me. But it can't happen. I don't even know what I'm gonna do with her for two nights, let alone for the rest of her life."

Sam remains silent as he stares out behind the swings and monkey bars at the children's playground just beyond the sidewalk. The dog whines and crawls into Sam's lap, resting her head on his knee and falling asleep.

Finally, Sam whispers, "I think we should name her Bones, since we found her in the trash."

"Oh fuck no, she deserves a cool name, like Metallica or Zeppy."

Sam snorts and reaches over to punch Dean in the arm. Dean is grateful that Sam seems to understand and forgive him for how impossible this situation is. It pisses him off that once again they're reminded of how fucked-up and unfair their existence is, how they can never get away from always being reminded that they'll never have a normal life. The fact that Sam's willing to go along with him in pretending for just a few brief minutes here in the park that they're just two brothers sitting here with their dog makes Dean want to hug all the air out of him.

It's not much, but it's enough.

***************************

As the afternoon drags on, Dean begins to feel more and more desperate. He's called everyone he knows, from Bobby and the dudes at the garage to people that he works with at the club, and no one is able to take the dog in for the weekend. Between shitty landlords, allergies, and other pets, Dean can't find anyone who can help them out. But still he stares at the tiny slip of paper that he found in the back of his wallet, finger gliding back and forth over the number.

"Who's Cas?" Sam asks, peering over his shoulder where Dean is sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Dean hastily shoves the paper back in his wallet. "Uh, just somebody I met a while back. At the club. A friend. He's cool," Dean quickly adds, reaching for the dog passed out in front of him and running his fingers through her fur.

"So, have you called him yet?" 

Dean shakes his head no. 

"Why not? Maybe he can take her in."

"Sam, I haven't known him for very long, and he's kinda weird." 

Sam squints his eyes and his face scrunches in confusion. 

"I mean – it's not a bad kind of weird," Dean hurries out. "It's just, he's kinda _particular_ about things, so I doubt he'd be able to help us."

Shrugging, Sam lays down on the other side of the dog, hand reaching out to pet her head. "You never know until you ask."

Dean fidgets nervously, playing with a loose thread on the hem of his jeans. He's never called Cas before, and doing so now would take things to another level, regardless of the reason he's calling. Plus, he hates asking for favors. It was killing him calling his coworkers and begging for help, and he's known these people for months, if not years. He doesn't want to pressure Cas into taking the dog in or to make him feel obligated.

On the other hand, Cas _did_ tell him to call any time. Granted, Dean's pretty sure that was just if he was needing someone to talk to, but still. He _is_ needing to talk to someone, even if it's because he's needing a favor from them.

Dean stares at his brother, watching as Sam wraps a finger around the dog's fur, smiling as the dog swats at his hand and squirms, as if she was being tickled. That smile on Sam's face is the final straw for him. He picks his phone up, pulls the number out of his wallet and taps it out on the dialpad. 

It rings three times before Cas answers.

"Hello?"

Dean has to hide a grin behind his hand at the suspicious tone in Cas's voice. "Uh, hey Cas. This is Dean."

A few seconds go by before Cas replies, the tone of his voice suggesting a smile. "Hello, Dean. It's…a surprise to hear your voice. Surprising, but good. How are you?"

"Yeah, I'm uh, I'm good. I know this is kind of out of the blue, but—"

"I'm sorry, Dean, I really did mean it was a good surprise that you've called. I've, uh…I've been hoping you'd call."

And that, that makes Dean feel so fucking happy and so fucking bad at the same time. If he'd known Cas had been actually _wanting_ him to call, he'd have done his damnedest to get up the nerve to do it long before now. He can feel himself smiling a dopey grin, and he picks up a blade of grass and starts twirling it around his finger. "If you'd been hoping for it, you should've told me before now, Cas."

He can hear Cas huff in amusement across the phone. "This may come as a shock to you, but you're a bit of an enigma, Dean, as well as a little intimidating. I wasn't sure if you'd be happy to hear that."

Dean feels as if his grin has pulled so wide it'll split his face in two. He glances up at Sam and finds his brother staring at him with an amused look on his face. Dean wipes the grin off his face, flicks the blade of grass away, and clears his throat. "Unfortunately, I didn't just call to chat, Cas. I, uh…I need a favor. I mean, Sam and I, we're kinda in a bind."

After a beat that Dean hopes isn't disappointment, Cas asks, "What's wrong, Dean?"

Dean sighs. "Well, long story short, we've uh, we found a stray dog today. And we took her to the vet, got her checked out and got her shots and bathed and all that shit, and we were gonna find a shelter to take her to so she can get a home, but all the shelters are closed on Saturdays. I'd take her home with me, but my landlord is a dick."

He pauses as he hears Cas snort in amusement, then he ventures on. "Sam can't take her because his foster mom sucks, and nobody else I know can take her." He takes a deep breath before babbling on without stopping. "Cas, it'd just be for two nights, until I can call around on Monday and find a shelter to take her in. Do you – I mean, could you take her in? I know your building might not allow pets, and I know with all your stuff you got going on that it might not be possible for you to do it, but I just…I didn't have anybody else I could ask. I hate putting you under pressure like this, especially since I know you've had a rough time lately, but I just—"

"Dean."

Dean rubs his hand across his eyes. "Yeah, Cas?"

"Be quiet so I can give you my address."

Dean exhales, the relief and affection he feels overwhelming him for a second, making it difficult to speak. "Thanks, Cas," he croaks.

He hangs up the phone after writing down the address and saying their goodbyes, and side-eyes Sam, who's still staring at him, mouth gaping.

"You know, you open you're mouth any wider and you might catch yourself a pterodactyl."

"You were flirting!" Sam exclaims.

Dean winces, leaning to the side so he can stuff his wallet back in his pocket. "What? No I wasn't," he says weakly.

"Dude, you _so_ were flirting. I've never seen a guy blush that much in my life."

"Shut the fuck up, Sasquatch, I can still give you a wedgie no matter how old you are."

"So, do you really like this guy?"

"Shut it, Sammy."

Sam leers and waggles his eyebrows. "Are you gonna ask him out on a date? Have you had your first kiss yet?"

"That's it, I'm stealing your phone and calling Jess."

Dean leans over the dog and pulls Sam's phone out of his pocket so fast that Sam doesn't even have time to do more than gasp and yell. Sam jumps up and tackles Dean, both of them wrestling for possession of the phone. The dog wakes up and starts barking, dodging around the boys rolling over in the grass. Once Dean has Sam pinned to the ground, hands trapped behind his back, the dog starts licking Sam's face. This sets them both off, laughing so hard that they stop fighting and lay on the grass shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the sky as they try to catch their breaths.

Overall, this has been one of their better Saturdays.

***************************

An hour later and Dean is knocking on Cas's door, Sam and the dog close behind. They'd stopped at a pet store on the way over to pick up bowls, food, toys, a collar and a leash. That way Dean hopefully wouldn't feel quite as guilty about leaving her here for the weekend.

When Castiel opens the door, both he and Dean stare at each other for several seconds before Cas breaks into a huge smile. Dean releases the breath he didn't know he was holding, and steps to the side to introduce his brother.

"Hey, Cas. This is my brother, Sammy. Sam, this is Castiel."

Sam reaches his hand forward, and Castiel stares down at the hand for a couple seconds before slowly raising his own to grasp it. Slightly awkward moment, but could have been worse, Dean thinks.

"I've heard much about you, Sam. It's a pleasure to meet you." Castiel reaches his other hand up to grasp Sam's hand between his own, and pulls him forward through the doorway. Sam hands Dean the dog's leash along the way, and Dean leans down to pick the dog up, just in case she gets any wiseass ideas like taking a dump right in the middle of Cas's living room.

"It's nice to meet you too, Castiel," Sam replies, eyes scanning the apartment as he takes a few steps inside. "And thanks for agreeing to do this." 

And Dean can't blame Sam for scoping the place out. This is a _really_ nice place. The furniture isn't super-luxurious, but it's obvious that it's expensive. Dean strolls around the living room as Sam explains to Cas how they came across the dog and what's happened since, and he can't help but think that if he ever had money, this is exactly how he'd furnish his home. The pine floor is honey-toned, the rug he's standing on a bright contrast of colors. Art prints hang on the walls, and dark oak beams seem to canopy the place throughout, mirroring the beautiful hardwood floors.

Castiel seems to notice Dean's interest because he asks, "Would you like a tour of the place?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, it's fine. I don't want to put you out or make you feel uncomfortable or anything, especially since this is all so unexpected—"

With a smile, Castiel cuts him off. "Dean, it's fine. I'm okay with this. If you and Sam would like to see my home, it'd be my pleasure to show it to you. I worked very hard to plan the design of it all, so it's nice to be able to show it off every so often."

Sam pipes up. "You designed this all yourself? Are you an architect, or a designer or something?"

Castiel chuckles. "No, nothing as prestigious as that. I'm a writer who happens to have a keen interest in design, and who also is very particular about how he wants  
things."

He walks them through the condo, and Dean falls in love with the place little by little. The walls in some rooms are of varying shades of gold, red, and rust, gorgeous earthy tones that are warm and inviting. The kitchen is filled with deep wood cabinets and stone slab countertops, warm yellow lighting, and a large wooden table. The den is filled with huge, overstuffed chairs and sofas, a wooden coffee table with matching end tables, and a flat screen TV that has Dean drooling.

Castiel leads them on through to the master bedroom, where the colors are varying shades of green and brown. "It took weeks to find the exact shade of green I had in mind for the walls," he remarks randomly. "I finally came across it by accident one day."

Sam clears his throat. "Dean's eyes," he says, in that innocent tone Dean knows damn well isn't innocent at all. When Castiel turns to look at him Sam smirks. "It's the exact same shade of green as Dean's eyes."

Dean blushes furiously and pretends he's not paying attention by petting the dog, but he catches Castiel's smile. 

"I hadn't met your brother at that point, so believe me, it wasn't on purpose."

Sam is airy as he responds. "Maybe you were just searching for the person with eyes your favorite shade of green, kinda like Cinderella and the glass slipper."

"Sammy, I will hurt you," Dean grits out between clenched teeth.

Castiel laughs, eyes dancing as he looks from Sam to Dean. "Perhaps you're right, Sam," he replies, and Dean can't help giving him a small smile before quickly returning his attention to the dog in his arms.

Castiel takes them on through to the master bathroom, which is tiled completely in a mosaic of blues and white. "Maybe I should be ashamed of how ostentatious it is," he admits as Sam whistles. "But I've never been able to make myself care." 

"You could fit two people in that bathtub," Sam declares as he admires the ridiculously large claw-footed beast. 

"Actually it's supposed to fit four," Castiel supplies. "Or so the interior designer told me."

Sam's grin is huge and delighted. "Or maybe two big guys. Six-footers."

Dean sends his dagger eyes out at his brother again because Sam is enjoying this way too much.

And maybe Cas is too, because his reply is mock-mournful. "I've never had the opportunity or inclination to test that theory myself. Not so far anyway. Not in the bathtub or the shower."

He pulls open a pair of double-doors as he speaks, and Dean's jaw drops as they stare in. It's almost its own room, with showerheads on all three walls, both high above and at waist level. A tiled ledge encompasses one whole wall opposite the doors, and Castiel points at it. "Seating arrangements. It's very relaxing under the spray of water."

"Dude, you could fit an entire village in here," Dean remarks. He steps into the shower, his mind wandering unrepentantly to the mental image of Cas naked in here, wet and hot and all lathered up. He cock gives a twitch inside his jeans, and he spins back around again because, yeah, it'd probably be better if he left this bathroom as soon as possible, or he'll have some explaining to do.

As they return to the living room, Dean notices pictures and small paintings lining the walls of the hallway. Some of the pictures are of beaches, some of forests and large, leafy trees, and others are of famous landmarks, such as a black-and-white photo of the Eiffel Tower and a golden painting of the Coliseum.

"Nice pictures, Cas," he says. "Are these some of the places you want to visit someday, like we talked about?"

Cas turns, an open and sad look on his face before he schools it into something more neutral. "Oh, uh, yes. They are." He shrugs, an awkward movement that looks out of place on someone who's usually so measured and careful. "Maybe someday I'll be able to. I hope so, anyway."

They stare at each other for several long moments before Sam clears his throat, and Dean thinks, _stareblocker_. 

"So, Castiel, you wanna see how you do with the dog?" Sam prompts. "If you guys like each other or not?"

Castiel continues to stare at Dean as he answers. "Yes, Sam, I think that's wise." He moves his gaze to the dog in Dean's arms. "So, does she have a name?"

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Sam cuts him off. "Yeah, her name is Zeppy."

Dean turns his head quickly to stare at Sam. "I thought you wanted to name her‘Bones'?"

"Nah, I think she's more of a Zeppy."

Sam shrugs and smiles at Dean, who loves his kid brother so fucking much in this moment that he's tempted to embarrass both of them and give Sam a big wet kiss on the cheek. Instead, he chooses to reach up and muss his hair, eliciting a yelp from him.

"Dude, never the hair!"

"One of these days, I'm gonna shave your head, and then where will you be? That's where all your power comes from, isn't it?"

"Shut up!"

Cas interrupts the joking to take the dog out of Dean's arms. She goes to him more than willingly, and Dean watches, tense, as she reaches up to lick his chin. Dean's not sure if Cas's _issues_ will make this a problem or not, so he stills as he watches and waits for Cas's reaction.

His worry seems to be all for nothing though, as Cas giggles at the dog's kisses. Fuckin' _giggles_ , and Dean wonders how one man can be so hot and adorable and weird at the same time.

"I think Zeppy is a very good name for her," Castiel decides. "Where does it come from?"

Dean is stunned. "Dude, seriously? You don't know where Zeppy comes from? You've known me for weeks now, and you don't know how much I love Led Zeppelin?"

Castiel rubs his face against the dog's neck and kisses her before replying. "You're a fan of Led Zeppelin? I knew you must like classic rock, given your playlists, but I didn't know specifically which groups you liked."

"There's no way anyone could like classic rock and not love Led Zeppelin," Dean tells him, sparing a look at Sam, who's watching the conversation with no small amount of amusement, before continuing on. "I guess I'm gonna have to give you some lessons on the brilliance of Zeppelin sometime in your future."

"I look forward to it," Cas replies.

The blue of his irises glows a little, so that Dean fancies they're smoldering, and he has to force any stray picture of how Cas might smolder down at him like that at night out of his mind. "Anyways, you think you can keep her for a couple days until I can find a shelter that will take her?" he says. "It'll involve taking her out to use the bathroom and stuff, you know. I don't have a clue if she's housebroken or not, but one can hope."

Castiel chews on his lip as he listens, and a thread of worry shoots through Dean as he realizes Cas probably hadn't even considered he'd have to leave the condo to take the dog for walks and stuff. _Fuck_ , he thinks, as he remembers the fire alarm and what Cas told him. "It's okay, Cas," he goes on softly, as the plan starts to fall apart "Honest it is. We'll just—"

"Yes, I think I can manage it," Castiel interrupts. "There's a park across the street. I've…I've never been there before, but…" He sighs as he runs a hand through his hair. "…But I think I can do it. It's just for a couple days, right?"

Dean nods, and the relief as Sam darts baffled eyes between them is huge. "Yep, just for a couple days, and look, Cas, if any problems come up, don't hesitate to call me. I don't want to make things bad for you with this, okay?"

Cas smiles weakly at him. "Okay. Thank you for being so understanding about it."

Dean shakes his head. "Shit, dude, you're the one that's helping _us_ out. The least I can do is try to be as accommodating to you as I can."

Sam speaks up a little uncertainly. "Dean, if I don't get home soon, Shirley's probably gonna get pissed off, start calling."

Dean scoffs. "Yeah, yeah, let's get you back to her house, Moosebaby."

"Dude, that nickname doesn't even make sense."

"Your face doesn't even make sense."

Castiel watches them both with a fond smile on his face before walking them to the door. As Dean steps into the hallway outside the condo, he turns to say goodbye to Cas.

"Thanks again, Cas, for everything. You really helped us out a lot with this," he says.

Castiel squeezes the dog in his arms. "It's really not a bother, Dean. I'm happy to help."

"I'll call you tomorrow to check in and see how it's going, okay?"

Cas smiles. "I'll look forward to hearing from you." He pauses to look at Sam over Dean's shoulder. "It was wonderful to meet you, Sam. I hope to do so again someday soon."

"Yeah, me too, Castiel," Sam says.

Dean's heart skips a beat at hearing Castiel say he wants to meet Sam again soon. It's fucking ridiculous what a few words can do to him. As Cas begins closing the door, Dean leans in to murmur, "Have a good night, Cas."

Cas leans forward to whisper in the space between the door and the doorframe, staring at Dean like he's the answer to every damn question he's ever had. "You, too, Dean."

And he shuts the door, leaving Dean with a racing heart, half a hard-on, and a smirking little brother standing behind him.

***************************


	9. Chapter 9

Once Dean and Sam say goodbye, Castiel lets Zeppy snoop around and investigate her new surroundings. He pulls blankets out of the hallway closet for her to sleep on, and uses the bowls that Dean brought to give her some food and water. Even though Dean said she'd eaten at the clinic, she's obviously hungry again, because the food is gobbled up so fast Castiel suspects she inhaled it. 

Castiel eyes her warily as she walks around the apartment. He's happy to help Dean, as well as to provide safety for the dog, but the spontaneity of all of this has him feeling restless and nervous now that Dean isn't there. Not to mention that he's going to need to work up the nerve to take the dog outside to relieve herself, most likely sooner rather than later given how much she ate.

He peeks out the window to the park across the street. It's dark outside, the sun having set before Dean and Sam left. Rationally, Castiel knows his neighborhood is a safe one, especially given the proximity of a police precinct down the road. But rationality is rarely in control of Castiel's fears, and he's left wondering if the can of pepper spray and the stun gun he has for emergencies will be enough to protect both him and the dog if something happens. He hears a whine at his feet as he ponders it, and looks down to find the dog staring up at him expectantly. His stomach churns with anxiety he feels as he realizes he'll have to summon up the nerve to take her outside.

Saying a silent prayer that at least no daylight means odds are good he won't be forced to interact with people, Castiel pulls his shoes on, attaches Zeppy to her leash, stuffs the can of pepper spray in his pocket, and grabs his keys and the stun gun. As worried as he is, he can't help but be amused at the little dance the dog is doing as she realizes she's going outside, her bark sounding as if she's urging Castiel to move faster.

In the elevator, the dog twirls and stands on her hind legs, pawing the air. Her eyes are bright and happy, and her tongue hangs out the side of her mouth as she pants in excitement. She pulls Castiel through the lobby as the elevator doors open, yipping enthusiastically, and he jogs along behind her, worried she might yank so hard on the leash that he'll lose his grip.

She wants to run across the street as soon as the door is open, but he guides her left, so they can cross at the corner crosswalk. Once they reach grass, she squats to relieve herself almost immediately, and Castiel eyes her speculatively. "Are you housebroken?" he asks, and she smirks up at him. "Please be housebroken."

It takes the dog a few minutes longer to sniff around and finish up her business, and Castiel watches their surroundings constantly, silently pleading with her to hurry. He can hear the blood rushing through his ears as his heart rate increases, and he's beginning to sweat from the anxiety. But as soon as the dog is done, she stands and places her front paws on Castiel's legs, asking to be picked up. He reaches for her, and quickly returns to the crosswalk.

As they cross the street and head back into the building, Castiel can feel his panic lessen, though he's not sure if it's because he's closer to home or because the bundle of fur in his arms is licking his chin and making him smile despite himself.

***************************

Castiel wakes with a warm, furry body curled up against his back and he can't find it in himself to care about dog hair on the sheets as Zeppy twitches awake, hops down off the bed, and trots out of the room as if she owns the place already. He shuffles out of his bedroom after her to find her sitting in front of the door expectantly.

"No coffee?" he mumbles, and he could swear she rolls her eyes at him. He gives in, pads back inside to pull on his sweats and sneakers. The trip across the street is easier for Castiel, if for no other reason than the sunrise is particularly breathtaking and its orange glow is distracting as it beams off of the early morning dew. 

Back inside, after a hearty breakfast for both of them, Castiel looks through the bag of toys that Dean brought, pulling each one out and observing the dog's reaction. She seems to be particularly fond of a soft, yellow duck that quacks, so he plays fetch with her until they both grow tired of it. Once she seems ready for her mid-morning nap, Castiel powers up his computer to start work, Zeppy curling up on the blanket he laid out for her next to his desk.

Just before noon Castiel's phone rings, and he feels a little jolt of pleasure when he sees the number on his caller ID.

"Hello, Dean."

"Hey, Cas, how's it going? How's the dog?"

"Things are going well. She's been very well behaved, so far. No accidents in the apartment at all," Castiel replies. 

He can hear hesitation in Dean's voice. "Soooo, you've been okay taking her outside? Not too scary?"

Castiel's stomach flip-flops over how concerned Dean sounds, and he smiles. "I'll admit, last night was a bit trying, but this morning was a little easier for me. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to need to take too much time before she's finished."

He can hear a sigh of relief across the phone line. "Okay, that's good." Dean pauses a moment before continuing. "Cas, look, I just wanna thank you again for doing this for us. It would have broken Sammy's heart if we'd had to just leave her outside to fend for herself like that."

"As I said before, I'm happy to help. She's a very sweet little dog, so she's been no trouble at all." Castiel hesitates before adding, "In fact, it's been kind of nice to have the company."

Dean chuckles. "Good, I'm glad it's working out so far. You need anything else? I'm on my lunch break with the lawn service right now, but if you need anything I might be able to swing by between here and the club tonight."

"No, I think you brought more than enough for us to get by, but thank you," Castiel replies, even as he's kicking himself. He would love the excuse to see Dean again so soon, but doesn't want to interrupt the man's busy schedule for his own selfish reasons.

"Okay. Look, I gotta get back to work, but if you need anything, just gimme a call on this number, alright?"

"Yes, Dean, of course. But go back to work and don't worry about us. We'll be fine."

"Alright, I'll – oh, hey! I almost forgot, but where did you put her to sleep last night? I almost bought her a bed but didn't know if she'd like it."

Castiel leans an elbow against the desk, cradling the phone against his ear. "I made her a pallet of blankets on the floor beside my bed, but at some point during the night she crawled into bed with me," he says.

"Lucky dog," Dean replies, voice deep and teasing. 

Castiel can feel himself flush, and he silently berates himself for letting Dean affect him so easily. He can't help but feel they are getting closer and closer to some precipice, and he wonders what it will take to push them over the edge.

They say their goodbyes, Dean promising to call at some point that evening to check up on them, and Castiel insisting that it's not necessary, even if the thought of having another phone call to look forward to has him happy and excited. He looks down at Zeppy, who seemed to be watching the phone call with interest, ears twitching.

"I bet you're wanting to go outside, aren't you?" 

The dog jumps up and twirls in circles at the mention of going outside. Castiel sighs, smiling as he reaches for her leash.

***************************

Dean does as he promised, calling Castiel that evening between his stage performance and VIP dances. They flirt shamelessly, Castiel grinning as he cradles the phone against his ear and listens to Dean's warm words. Castiel wonders how they can do what they've done at the club, yet still flirt as if this is all brand new for them. He supposes that in a way it _is_ new, considering the circumstances. He just hopes they continue to take things further.

He wakes Monday morning with a sense of panic. He slides a hand down his side, finding the soft, sweet head of the little dog, and pets her soft fur almost frantically. And gradually his hand slows down to slower, calmer strokes until the churning in the pit of his stomach is gone and his pulse rate is normal. 

It occurs to Castiel that today is the day Dean promised he'd find a shelter to take Zeppy in, and as he scratches behind the dog's ears, deep in thought, she crawls up along his shoulders, licking his cheek once she reaches his face. He chuckles, worming his way out from under the covers to find some pants to put on so he can take her outside. She bounces around the room in excitement until he reaches down to attach her leash to her collar, then pulls him to the elevator outside, as she has every time. He yawns as she leads him to the corner crosswalk, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as they cross the street and head into the park. He blearily notices that the sky is cloudy this morning, so there isn't much of a sunrise to see, but before he has time to wonder if it's going to rain today Zeppy has finished her business and is dancing around his feet, begging to be picked up.

Castiel gathers her into his arms, carrying her through the crosswalk, up the elevator, and back into the apartment before he realizes that he hadn't brought his pepper spray or stun gun, and hadn't even missed them. In fact, it hadn't even crossed his mind to be afraid of being outside.

This realization hits him as if he just walked into a brick wall, and in that moment, he knows what he must do. Sparing a look at the clock, he decides to feed Zeppy and take a shower before making the call. By the time he picks up the phone and starts dialing, it's close to eight am. The line rings twice before Dean answers.

"Cas? What's wrong?" Dean answers, out of breath.

"Nothing, Dean, nothing's wrong. I didn't mean to alarm you," Castiel says. He can hear loud noises in the background, and realizes Dean must already be at the garage.

"Okay, so what's up? You need me to come get the dog now instead of later?"

"I don't want you to pick her up at all," Castiel replies. 

There's silence on the other end of the line for several seconds before Dean answers. "…Um, what? What are you saying, Cas?"

Castiel takes a deep breath. "I'd like to keep her. Adopt her myself."

Castiel knows the grin on Dean's face is huge because he can hear it through the phone. "So, somebody's got her furry paws wrapped around your heart, huh? If I'd known all it took was a few wet licks on your face I could have done that a long time ago, Cas."

Castiel laughs. "I can assure you, Dean, you wouldn't have to go to such lengths, but the wet licks would be appreciated all the same." He almost can't believe the words as they're leaving his mouth, but Dean only chuckles in response.

"I'll keep that in mind, then." Dean clears his throat before continuing. "So, uh, do you need anything for her? I can help out with paying for stuff, if you want, since I'm the one who brought her over and everything…"

He lets his voice trail off, and Castiel waits a moment to see if he's going to say anything else. When he's only met with silence, Castiel says, "No, that won't be necessary at all. The only thing I ask of you is, um… well, I want you and Sam to think of her as yours, too. If it weren't for your unfortunate circumstances, she _would_ be yours. So, please, don't hesitate to visit with her, and to bring Sam over on Saturdays, if you both want, of course."

Dean is quiet for many moments before Castiel hears him take a shaky breath. "Cas, I don't…I don't know what to say. You have no idea what this means to Sammy and…and…everything." 

The _everything_ is so obviously what it means to _Dean_ , and Castiel understands how difficult it is for Dean to accept a gift such as this, and to admit how much it affects him. So he lets the unsaid words pass them by, for now.

"I only ask that you do call first before coming over," he thinks to add. "Unplanned things still make me nervous, so it would help—"

"Oh, of course, Cas! We'd never just show up on your doorstep. I don't like unannounced visits either, believe me."

Castiel smiles, and they finish up their conversation with Dean promising to call and check up on them tomorrow.

***************************

Procrastinating is easier with a pet dog, and after two hours of intense coaching Tuesday morning, Zeppy can shake hands.

Dean phones, just like he promised, and they chat briefly about the tricks Castiel is teaching Zeppy, as well as about the crazy customer at the garage who threw a fit, insisting that one of the mechanics must have eaten Taco Bell while working on her car because she now can't get the smell out, and then demanded her money back. Dean and Castiel are both in tears laughing over what Bobby said in response to her, and Castiel hangs up the phone wondering how he ever lived without Dean's daily phone calls.

On Wednesday, Dean calls Castiel to inform him that he won't be working at the club that evening because he's home in bed with the flu. Castiel spends the next twenty minutes doing his best to play nursemaid over the phone while threatening to jump in his car and find Dean's apartment so that he can take care of him in person. Dean swears up and down that he'll be fine, and that his neighbor upstairs, Ellen, is already aware of him being sick and checking in on him every few hours with pots of soup and lots of hot tea and brandy.

On Thursday, Castiel calls Dean, and is relieved to hear that he stayed home from the garage again to sleep and try to get better. Dean is mad because no work means no money, but Bobby had threatened to sue him for workplace endangerment if he came in with what he called the "Mongolian Rot" and exposed everybody else to it. Castiel listens to his griping and whining until Dean is tired again, and whispers "sweet dreams" to him as Dean yawns and sleepily hangs up the phone.

On Friday, Dean is feeling much better, and calls Castiel from the garage on his lunch break. They discuss Dean and Sam possibly visiting him and Zeppy on Saturday, and Dean says he'll call Castiel in the morning to firm up their plans. Castiel spends the rest of the afternoon doing his best to concentrate on writing, but he's too excited at the prospect of seeing Dean outside of the club again. He'd been disappointed that he couldn't visit him Wednesday night, but he's starting to hope that maybe their friendship, or relationship, or whatever one could call it, is moving beyond VIP dances and strip clubs.

As he stares at the blank page of the next chapter of his rough draft, there's a knock at the door. Zeppy jumps, barking at the noise as Castiel frowns and makes his way to the door. What he sees through the peephole makes him roll his eyes as he bends to pick up the dog, and opens the door.

"What the hell is that yapping noise? What the hell is that hairy thing in your arms? Am I at the right apartment?"

Castiel widens the door to let Gabriel stroll inside before answering. "I've got a dog now. This is Zeppy. Zeppy, this is the brother I told you about. Feel free to bite him whenever you want."

Gabriel stands in the foyer, mouth gaping. "What in the _hell_ are you doing with a dog?"

Castiel sets Zeppy down on the floor so she can sniff out Gabriel. "I…a friend needed me to house her for a while. And when he couldn't take her I offered to adopt her." At his brother's unimpressed look, he adds, "She shakes hands."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "A _friend_? What friend might this be?"

Castiel darts his eyes around the room, knowing he looks shifty but not able to control himself. He'd not thought out a response to the question of just what or who Dean is to him. "Just someone I've gotten to know recently."

"This someone wouldn't happen to be that hot-ass stripper from the club, would it?" his brother snorts.

Castiel sighs. For someone who loves his privacy, he seems to have a disturbing lack of it lately. "You've been talking to Pamela again, haven't you?"

Smirking, Gabriel answers, "Not talking so much as emailing. She said you've been making a lot of progress over the past few weeks, and a lot of it has to do with this guy."

Castiel fidgets as he sits down on the sofa, Zeppy jumping up and settling in his lap. "I'm not sure about the progress, but yes, Dean has been quite encouraging and…inspirational for me."

"I bet," Gabriel snorts. "So, what say you take me out and show me how much progress you've made?"

Castiel eyes him suspiciously. "Why? What's going on?"

"Well, your big brother could use some cheering up." Gabriel sighs before continuing, leaning back into the soft cushions of the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. "Kali broke up with me again."

"Again? I wasn't aware that you were back together. What happened?"

"Eh, I _may_ have insinuated that I wouldn't be averse to one of her friends joining us for some love time, if you know what I mean," Gabriel mutters, but he at least has the decency to look slightly ashamed.

"Gabriel!" Castiel gasps. "Why would you say something like that? And to _Kali_! With her Krav Maga training, she could practically snap you in two with the blink of an eye."

"Yeah, yeah, trust me, I _know_ ," his brother answers ruefully. "Her badassness was one of the many reasons I fell so hard for her. But it just hasn't been working anymore, not for a long time. And I figured that was an easy way out." Gabriel scowls, rubbing a hand across his face. "I don't think I really thought that one through. She uh, considered beating the shit out of me, but just kicked me out instead."

Frowning, Castiel stares at his brother in sympathy for several seconds. "I'm sorry, Gabriel. It's never easy when a relationship ends."

"Yep, which is why you're taking me out to get me shit-faced." Gabriel stops long enough to award Castiel an exaggerated wink. "Preferably with a lapful of strippers. Lots and lots of strippers." 

Castiel sighs. "I'll get my creeper coat."

He's nervous about visiting the club on Dean's off-night, and wonders how Dean might feel if he knew Castiel visited knowing he'd be absent. But he shakes off the concern, and decides to buy Gabriel a VIP dance with Casey, the woman he was so taken with on their first visit to the club, to cheer him up.

Castiel does as all good brothers do and makes sure to get Gabriel exceedingly drunk, starting him off with two bottles of wine at a nearby sushi restaurant. Gabriel sneaks the third bottle of wine out with them and finishes it off in the car before they even get to the club. Which means, of course, that Gabriel is about ten times more obnoxious than his usual self once they arrive at Angels and Demons, but Castiel does what he can to ignore it, given how much Gabriel has put up with him in the past.

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom, using that moment to approach the VIP doorman and purchase the dance for Gabriel. He curses when he spots Gordon leaning against the wall outside one of the VIP rooms, chewing gum and texting on his phone. Castiel had forgotten that Gordon was the bouncer on Friday nights, but is quickly reminded of how much he dislikes the man when Gordon looks up from his phone and smirks, gaze sliding up and down Castiel's body.

"So what brings you here on a Friday night, Constantine? I don't know how happy Tyler's gonna be to see you here, unless you're willing to open up that wallet a bit more."

Castiel knits his eyebrows in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean? Tyler doesn't work on Friday nights anymore."

Gordon chuckles, a rumbling, condescending noise that makes Castiel's skin crawl. "Is that what he told you? You poor sucker. No, he just wanted you to stop taking time away from the big spenders on Friday nights. Seems as though you're not a big tipper, which is funny, since I figured you'd want to overcompensate for something."

Castiel feels as if he's been punched in the gut. "But…I didn't know we were _supposed_ to tip, if I'd known I would have…" He lets his words trail off, not necessarily wanting a response from Gordon, but not sure what else to say.

"You didn't _know_? Damn, he wasn't kiddin' when he said you're a weird one," Gordon chides. "But hey, since you're here, I guess he probably wouldn't mind shakin' his junk in your face, just so long as you start tippin' him, you know?"

Gordon winks at him, and Castiel has a sudden, overwhelming urge to vomit all over the man's shoes. He swallows the bile down long enough to inform Gordon that he won't be needing any dances tonight, and hurries off to find Gabriel, mind reeling at the information.

He can feel a panic attack coming on as he tries to work his way through the crowd, but he concentrates on getting his breathing regulated and under control. By the time he reaches their table, he's no longer struggling for air, but he still feels as if he's going to revisit his dinner at any moment. He grabs Gabriel's shoulder to gain his attention, and his brother whips his head around, a giant smile on his face from watching a group of rowdy women at the table next to them. 

When Gabriel sees Castiel's face, the smile disappears immediately. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"I have to leave. I'm sorry, Gabriel, but I can't be here, I have to go home," Castiel says, voice shaky.

As drunk as Gabriel is, he's still able to realize the severity of the situation. "Okay, sure. I'll go pay the tab and meet you out front, alright?"

Castiel shoots him a grateful look and a nod before turning around to struggle his way out of the club.

The drive home is a somber one, Gabriel asking only once what happened. When Castiel says he doesn't want to talk about it, Gabriel mercifully leaves it alone. And when Castiel, the sober one, is the person who ends up kneeling on the bathroom floor vomiting up the remains of his dinner, Gabriel still doesn't say a word, other than to remind Castiel to brush his teeth once there is no more left to come up.

"I'll call a cab," Gabriel says quietly as he walks Castiel back to his bed, and Castiel shakes his head even though the motion makes him dizzy.

He waves his hand towards the door. "There are spare bedrooms everywhere. Just – pick one."

As he says goodnight to Gabriel and closes the door to his bedroom, Castiel picks up Zeppy, who's been following closely at his heels ever since he got home. He squeezes her tight and buries his face in her fur. "I'm glad you're here," he tells her.

***************************

Castiel wakes the next morning to a pounding head and his phone ringing. A quick glance at the screen shows that it's Dean calling, but he lets it go to voicemail. He knows Dean is calling to schedule a time for him and his brother to visit the dog, but he can't bring himself to talk to the man.

He curls onto his side, pulling the covers and Zeppy closer to him. She whines for a moment, but he can't find it in himself to care. "Mess on the rug," he mumbles. "Have at it."

He closes his eyes and tries to drift back to sleep, tries to forget what happened last night, but the attempt is futile. He replays over and over again what Gordon said, the cruel laugh and crueler words.

He wonders if he has been nothing more than a joke to Dean all this time, if Dean goes back to the other dancers and workers at the club, telling them everything Castiel said and did that night, wonders if Dean calls him the _trenchcoat creeper_ , like he's heard others say before. He can't think of any other reason why Dean would lie to him. Has _everything_ been a lie? Were the kindnesses Dean paid to Castiel just a way to try to get more money out of him? 

Castiel wonders if Dean is disgusted by him, frustrated with the fact that he had no one else to turn to for help with the dog. As he thinks it, Zeppy whines softly and when he cracks his eyelids open, she's watching him with sad brown eyes. "I've been an idiot," he tells her. "I thought it was special. I thought it was real." But it isn't, and that's why Dean has never asked to see him outside the club, except for when he needed something from him. And it explains why Dean is still more than willing to keep dancing for Castiel and taking his money.

He feels like such a fool.

***************************

When his phone rings again about an hour later, Castiel has showered and had coffee. He's feeling better and more resolved, but he still doesn't answer his phone. He stares at it while it's ringing as if it's a ticking time bomb, and Gabriel walks up behind him.

"Oh, so it's Dean that's the problem, huh? Okay, lemme take care of it," he says, grabbing the phone from the counter. Castiel yelps, trying to steal the phone back before Gabriel answers, but his luck is once again horrible.

"Helloooo? Castiel's phone." Gabriel looks up at Castiel as he listens to what Dean says. "Oh, Cassie is here, but he's very busy right now, _if you know what I mean_ , right? But uh, he can call you back as soon as he's not _tied up_ anymore, okay?" 

Castiel buries his face in his hands as he listens to the horrors that Gabriel is spouting. A small part of him almost wants Dean to think what Gabriel is leading him to believe, wants him to think Castiel isn't sitting around waiting for him. But mostly he's just sick at the thought of trying to hurt the man, and sicker still at the realization that Dean probably doesn't care either way.

"What's that? Oh, you just want me to tell him you're not coming over today? Yeah, I'll let him know. Don't feel too bad, I'm sure others will be coming over something around here soon, so I doubt you'll be missed much." Gabriel winks at Castiel as he listens to Dean. "Oh yeah? You're a classy one, aren't cha? Well, fuck you too, cowboy," Gabriel replies, ending the call and pulling the phone away from his ear to look at it. "That's a feisty one you got there, Cas."

"Gabriel, that was completely unnecessary," Castiel groans.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and slides the phone across the counter. "I didn't notice you trying to stop me or taking the phone away," he responds. "So, what the hell happened last night?"

Scowling, Castiel turns to pour himself another mug of coffee. "I don't want to talk about it. I just…I heard some things that made me realize Dean isn't as…fond of me as I'd hoped."

"So the hottie dancer is leading you on to get more money out of you? Shit, Cas, I could have told you that. It's like the oldest trick in the book. Well, not really, since _whoring_ is the oldest trick in the book, but it's definitely the second oldest." Gabriel pauses to stare at Castiel for a moment, eyes sympathetic. "So, how much money did he swindle out of you?"

Castiel looks down at the counter, watching his fingers as they tear apart a napkin. "It's not the money, Gabriel. I don't care about that, and besides, he didn't get any money out of me that I didn't receive services for in return." He glances up to find Gabriel's eyebrows raised to his hairline in surprise. "Not like that," he adds witheringly. "By services I mean dancing, and, and – lending me an ear to listen to my problems occasionally."

He shrugs, the awkwardness of the movement making him feel more vulnerable. "It's that I thought he cared. I thought we were becoming friends. It's been so long since I've had a friend, someone who I thought was happy to see me…I just, it's disheartening to discover the truth."

They stand in silence for a bit before Gabriel places a hand on Castiel's shoulder and squeezes in reassurance. "It's gonna be okay, buddy. You want me to go kick his ass?"

Castiel snorts, leaning into his brother's touch. "No, thank you. I think I could hold my own with him anyways, given I'm closer to his physical stature and build than you."

"Is that your way of saying I'm short and scrawny? It may be true, but I fight dirty, y'know," Gabriel replies, winking at him.

"That won't be necessary, but I appreciate it. For the offer and for listening to me."

"Eh, no biggie, little bro. And uh, just so you know…" Gabriel pauses a moment, waiting to have Castiel's attention, "…I'm proud of you. You've come a long way over the past couple months, so no matter what, you should be happy with yourself."

Castiel smiles, grateful for his brother's words. "Thank you. It means the world to me to have your support, Gabriel, it really does."

"Alright, enough mushy crap. I need to go do something to reaffirm my manhood, like kill a bear, or visit Hooter's or something." Gabriel slaps his stomach as he pulls away from the counter.

"I believe there's a particularly vicious raccoon that's been doing damage at our dumpster, if you're interested in proving how manly you are," Castiel jokes thinly.

"Ha ha, bite me, smartass."

***************************

Castiel spends the rest of the weekend moping around his apartment and trying to distract himself with work and Zeppy. The dog proves more successful at distraction than writing does, so he spends a good bit of his time teaching her more tricks. He's pleased to find that she's highly intelligent, only taking an hour or so to learn each trick. On Saturday, he teaches her to sit on command, and on Sunday she learns to heel and roll over.

Castiel smiles as he thinks how impressed Sam will be at seeing her perform all her new tricks, then his heart aches at remembering that odds are good he and Zeppy may never see Sam or Dean again.

He's considered what to do, if anything, about the knowledge that Dean only saw him as a customer, and a cheap one at that. He isn't sure if he could stand facing Dean, knowing what he knows, so he decides that he just won't return to the club again. If Dean only sees him as a hindrance, then it's doubtful that he'll be missed much, except for whatever cut he gets for the VIP dances.

He wonders briefly if Dean might try to call him again. A part of him hopes that he doesn't, is afraid of the confrontation it would lead to. But a bigger part of him _wants_ Dean to contact him, to try and figure out what went wrong, to prove that he does really care. As the days pass by without a word from him, Castiel realizes it's even more proof that he doesn't.

When Wednesday rolls around, Castiel becomes restless, missing the thrill and excitement of knowing that in just a few short hours he'll get to see Dean again. He tries to concentrate on work, but he can barely even finish a sentence, let alone making that sentence readable. He takes Zeppy on an extended walk through the park, not returning to the apartment for over an hour.

It's the longest he's been out in the open in years, and the realization that he did it without panicking hits him as they ride the elevator back up to his floor. Instead of being afraid, Castiel found solace and peace outside, and this knowledge gives him an unfamiliar sense of strength and empowerment. With this realization, he also becomes aware that he will never be able to get past this thing with Dean without closure. Until he's able to face him and tell him what he knows and how much he feels used, he won't be able to move on and continue on this path of healing.

As much as it sickens and terrifies him, he needs to make one last trip to Angels and Demons.

***************************

Castiel arrives at the club late, not wanting to sit at a table and watch the performances, nursing a beer and getting more anxious by the minute. He walks straight to the hallway of the VIP rooms and approaches Ash.

"I'd like a dance with Tyler please," he announces firmly. "Waiting until last won't be necessary tonight."

Ash shrugs, but doesn't say anything else as he takes Castiel's money. 

Changing his mind about a drink, Castiel steers his way over to the bar and orders a shot of whiskey. He's not wanting to get drunk, especially given that he has to drive himself back home. He's just needing something to soothe his panicked nerves and to steel his resolve.

When Tyler Page is announced to the stage, Castiel can feel his heart skip several beats as his stomach drops to the floor. He turns slowly from the bar, not able to keep himself from watching even if he tried. The first notes of a raucous, aggressive guitar riff begin as Dean bounces onstage. He's wearing ripped, faded jeans, black combat boots, a tight, black, sleeveless mesh shirt, with silver chains hanging from his waistband. There's a black dog collar around his neck with silver spikes jutting from it, and a matching band around one wrist. His hair is spiked high, giving him the look of a punk rocker from the seventies or eighties, and he's got black eyeliner smudged around his eyes.

His movements are bold and confrontational, daring the audience to join him, either onstage or just in clapping along to the song, Castiel can't be sure. He's sticking his tongue out lewdly and gyrating his hips to the beat, mouthing along to the words of the song, "… _do ya wanna touch me there, where, there…_ " The audience, as usual, is working itself into a frenzy, soaking up everything Dean does like he's the snake in the Garden tempting them with a taste.

Castiel watches Dean, tries to see if he can read anything in his facial expressions that might give away if he's been bothered by lack of contact with Castiel over the past several days, but there's nothing different from his usual stage persona. Castiel knows he shouldn't have expected a change, especially not when Dean is in front of an audience, but he still can't help but be disappointed.

Once the routine is over, Castiel eyes Dean as he saunters off stage. The plan was to go to the VIP room immediately after Dean's performance so that he can get the confrontation over with and get out of here as quickly as possible. But now he's beginning to lose his nerve. Seeing Dean looking so happy and confident and beautiful as always has made him question his resolve, and he takes a moment to order another shot, nursing it for twenty minutes or so before taking a deep breath and pushing up to make his way to the VIP rooms.

When he arrives outside the door, Ash raises a hand. "He's just finishing off after the first customer," he says with a wink. "He'll just be a couple of minutes." 

Castiel leans against the wall, fists clenching and unclenching in a useless attempt to stay his nerves. After five minutes have passed, Ash sticks his head in the door, mumbles "You ready?" to Tyler inside the room, and Castiel can just barely hear an assent from the man inside.

Ash opens the door wider to let Castiel through, and when he enters the room he finds Dean playing with his iPod, back to the door. Castiel takes a few steps inside but stops just as he reaches the sofa. He waits for Dean to turn around and notice him, saying a silent prayer of thanks for that second shot of whiskey because otherwise he thinks he would have turned tail and left before Dean was even aware of his presence.

When Dean turns and sees him standing there, the first emotion that flits across his face is relief, but he schools his face so quickly into an expression of indifference that Castiel can't be sure of what he saw. Dean smiles a cold smile, with not a drop of the warmth and fondness that he's exhibited towards Castiel over the past several weeks. It pains Castiel to find it missing, and makes him wonder if what he's seen there all along was ever even real. 

But the pain of its absence can only hurt him so long before it turns into anger.

"So," Dean says icily, turning away from the music cabinet. "Good to see you could take the time for a dance tonight, especially if your uh, _extracurricular activities_ have been wearing you out lately." He narrows his eyes and clenches his jaw, pauses for a long moment as if he's waiting to see if Castiel responds, but when Castiel just continues to stare, he goes on. "You fancy anything in particular tonight? What's your pleasure, _Cassie_?"

Dean's anger and vitriol are completely uncalled for, given that Castiel is the one who's been wronged. And that's what pushes Castiel over the edge, gives him that last bit of nerve to strike out. "My _pleasure_ would be the truth."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Dean's voice is so loud and harsh it seems to surprise not only Castiel but Dean as well. Castiel takes several steps forward, bringing himself into Dean's personal space and letting him know he won't be backing down. "It means you've been lying to me all this time, and I want to hear you admit it to me before I leave this room and never come back."

Dean juts his chin forward in defiance, looking down his nose at Castiel. "What the hell, Cas? I've never lied to you. If anyone's been lying, it's you."

Castiel squints suspiciously. "When have I ever lied to you?"

"Um, hello, how about not telling me you were fucking some douchebag asshole while you've been coming here and seeing me, and flirting with me, and being all nice and helping me out with the dog and making me think you like me when, _again_ , you're fucking some douchebag asshole on the side."

Castiel shakes his head once, rolling his eyes. "Dean, that douchebag asshole is my brother."

Dean's face scrunches up in horror. "You're fucking your brother? That's sick."

Castiel gapes. "What? Oh, Dean, _please_! I'm not having sex with my _brother_ , that's not what I meant."

"Then why was your brother pretending that you were busy with…fucking…or whatever the hell he meant when I called?"

This was not going at all how Castiel had planned it. The last thing he'd expected was to be put on the defensive. "I'm never sure why Gabriel does the things he does. He may have just been trying to get rid of you for me, or maybe it was a form of payback, I don't know."

Castiel's surprised at the concern and pain that crosses Dean's face at his words. If anything, he'd have expected anger and denial and callousness. He wasn't expecting to see his words wound.

"Cas, what's going on?"

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shut out the open look of hurt on Dean's face. He's so confused, and he shouldn't still care about hurting Dean after everything, should he? "Am I just a customer to you?" he whispers. "Is that all this has been?"

Dean stills at Castiel's words, so quiet that Castiel wonders if he's holding his breath.  
"Cas, why the fuck would you ask that?"

Castiel opens his eyes and stares Dean down. "Because Gabriel and I came to the club last Friday. And I spoke with Gordon, who told me you never stopped working Friday nights, and that you had me change nights because I was taking time away from your better paying customers, and that you—"

"Shit-fuck _goddammit_ , Gordon is such a fucking asshole, I'm gonna ripping his fucking _head_ off," Dean snarls, turning away. Castiel watches his back as Dean rubs a palm across his face and continues to mutter profanities under his breath.

"Well?" Castiel says. "Is it true? Or are you going to lie to try to hold onto my patronage for as long as you can?" He regrets the words even as they're leaving his mouth, but yet he can't stop himself from saying it. He's pissed, and wants to lash out and hurt as much as he himself has been hurt.

But when Dean turns to face him with a look of such raw pain that it's almost as if Castiel had slapped him, he wishes with everything he is that he could take the words back. 

"You really think so low of me that you think I'd lie to you about all of this, about _everything_ we've said to each other over the past weeks, just to keep getting your money?" Dean shakes his head, a weak, bitter smile on his face, eyes wide open, glassy, and threatening to spill tears. "If you believe that, Cas, then you don't really fucking know me at all."

Dean shoves past him to take a seat on the couch. He leans forward to put his face in his hands, but grunts and pulls back long enough to rip off the dog collar and wristband. Castiel watches him, confused by Dean's reaction. He'd expected anger and denial, not whatever it is that Dean seems to be going through, and he surely didn't expect to be feeling guilt, or hearing Dean hurling these accusations at him. Castiel had been so sure he was in the right here, but now he's not sure of anything.

"Dean, if that's not the reason you asked me to starting visiting on Wednesdays, then what's the real reason?"

Castiel notices Dean's shoulders begin shaking, and Castiel starts in alarm before he realizes that Dean is laughing. The man looks up at him, mouth twisted in a rueful smile as he says, "What's really funny is that if I'd just told you the truth to begin with, none of this would have happened. But I was too much of a chickenshit to tell you the real reason."

"Which is?" Castiel encourages.

Dean scrubs at his face, smearing the black eyeliner. "Ah, shit, Cas. Can you at least sit down while I tell you this? I feel weird looking up at you, okay?"

Castiel sighs, but does as Dean asks, sitting down on the couch next to him. They're each sitting on opposite ends, and they sit facing the front instead of looking at each other as Dean continues to talk.

"I asked you to start coming on Wednesday nights because I didn't want Gordon to be around when we were…doing our… _thing_."

Castiel looks over at Dean, but Dean just continues to stare at the floor in front of him.   
"And why is that?" Castiel nudges.

Dean sighs in frustration. " _Because_ , Cas! Because I didn't want that asshole snooping around and getting in the way of whatever was happening between us. I didn't want to be worried about him figuring out what was going on, and telling my boss."

"And what exactly _is_ happening between us?" Castiel does his best to remain wary and suspicious because he knows Dean could just be lying to get out of trouble, to hang onto his money every week. But deep down he also knows that the man he's gotten to know over the past couple months, the man who loves his little brother as much as he so obviously loves Sam, _that_ man is too honorable to tell lies like that.

Dean sighs, exasperated. "Seriously, Cas? You're gonna make me say it?"

"I think at this point I do need to hear you say it, yes," Castiel replies quietly. 

Dean groans, and leans back against the upholstery, hiking a foot up and underneath himself and facing more towards Castiel. He hides his face in his palm as he murmurs, "I don't think I've ever liked anyone as much as I like you. I think about you all the time, when I'm not worrying over Sam. I think about you so much that I've almost lost fingers twice at the garage, and Bobby has threatened to kick me out more than once because of how goofy I've been."

He pauses to glance quickly at Castiel before turning to stare at the wall. "Wednesdays are my favorite days of the week now because I know I'm gonna see you. And Thursdays are my least favorite because it's too far away from when I'll see you again." He clears his throat before continuing. "I almost like it more when we talk instead of, you know, _other_ stuff, because you're so fucking weird and you make me laugh and make me feel like maybe I'm not so alone. And your eyes…dude, I don't know if you know this, but smarter people than me could write epic, long poems about your eyes and make a shitload of money, they're that fucking gorgeous and hot. And I've stayed awake for hours at night thinking about your hands and wanting more than anything to know what they feel like on me."

He pauses, head turning slowly to stare at Castiel, and if Castiel had more strength, had more control over his senses and actions right now, he'd probably try to close his mouth because he knows he must look like a fish with it opening and closing, but at this moment he feels he's lucky that he's even still breathing. Thank god Dean doesn't seem to need a reply from him before continuing.

"I knew if you came on a night when Ash was the bouncer, he wouldn't give a shit what we got up to. And that if you waited until you were the last customer of the night, we could do whatever the hell we wanted and for however long we wanted. I knew I shouldn't have lied about the reason why, but I was _scared_ , Cas. I was scared that you only thought of me as a dancer, someone you were paying to take his clothes off and then you never thought about me past that." He throws up his hands. "And…fuck, Cas, do you really need me to go on? I can if you want, but I already feel awkward as fuck, and I don't know if any of this will make any difference to you, and I don't even know if you believe me or not, and dammit, you're not saying anything—"

"I feel the same way about you," Castiel whispers, finally gaining enough control over his voice to speak. 

Dean's head snaps up, eyes searching Castiel's to find the truth in his words. Castiel allows the search, meeting Dean's gaze and not looking away. Whatever he finds in Castiel's eyes must give Dean confidence because he slides across the couch, closing the distance between them, pulling himself up warm and solid against Castiel. 

"Oh, thank god," he croaks. He lifts his arms as if he's about to wrap them around Castiel but pauses at the last second. "I wanna hug you, man. Can I hug you?" he asks, eyebrows lifted in question.

Castiel huffs in amusement, and nods his head. He takes a deep breath as Dean awkwardly wraps his arms around his neck. Castiel slowly lifts a hand to pat his back but lowers it again to his own leg, still unsure about touching Dean himself, given the circumstances.

"So, does that mean you believe me, then?" Dean whispers against Castiel's ear, sending shivers down his back.

"Yes, Dean," Castiel sighs against his cheek. "I'm sorry, I should have just come to you first instead of believing anything Gordon had to say."

Dean rubs his cheek against Castiel's stubble, the _scritchscritchscritch_ sound magnified in the stillness of the room. "S'okay, man, I get not being able to trust people, you and Bobby are the first people I've trusted outside Sam in, like, _ever_ ," he murmurs against Castiel's neck.

Castiel is grasping the arm of the couch with one hand and the leg of his pants with the other, not knowing if he's allowed yet to put his hands where they want to go. Dean's warm, wet breaths against his ear and neck are driving him to distraction, his scent of leather and musk making Castiel want to find out if he tastes as delicious as he smells.  
Dean wraps one hand to the nape of Castiel's neck, sliding the fingers of his other hand through his hair, cradling him in place. "Cas?" he whispers against his ear. "Touch me."

Castiel moans as he unclenches his fists, opening his hands to slide his fingers along Dean's arms and around his back. He slips his fingers underneath the mesh of Dean's shirt, feeling as if Dean's fevered skin is scorching his fingertips. Strong muscles flex as Castiel splays his hand along Dean's spine, playing the knobs of his vertebrae as if Dean were an instrument. 

Finally, _finally_ he's touching the skin that he's fantasized about for so long, and the reality is inexplicably even better than his dreams. Dean's body shivers beneath his touch, skin silky and delicate, hiding the strength of the man inside. Castiel finds himself overwhelmed by these senses he's been denied for so long; to be able to touch and taste after only ever being able to look and smell has him feeling light-headed, his nerve endings singing from overexposure.

Dean leans his forehead against Castiel's, eyes closed and panting as he soaks in Castiel's touch. Castiel watches, eyes wide and waiting, until finally he decides he can't stand to wait another second. "Can I kiss you, Dean?"

Dean opens his eyes, staring back at him while a smile slowly spreads across his face. "I thought you'd never ask, Cas."

They continue to stare at each other for several seconds longer before Castiel says, "So, is that a yes, then?"

Dean laughs, dropping his forehead on Castiel's shoulder before looking back up at him with a grin. "Just kiss me, smartass."

Castiel smiles shyly before grabbing Dean's shirt and pulling him towards him. Just before their lips meet, they pause to look at each other, both waiting for the other to make the final push forward. Castiel is the one to make the leap, placing his palm against Dean's cheek before placing a gentle kiss against his lips. 

As first kisses go, this one is particularly chaste, especially given everything they've already seen and done with each other. But when Castiel goes in for another taste, licking the seam of Dean's lips, Dean's chest rumbles with a groan that urges Castiel further, and before he knows it, he's pushed Dean back against the couch and crawled into his lap. He stares down at Dean, laughing at the look of shock across the man's face. 

"How the hell did we get here?" Dean says, gasping.

Castiel strokes a thumb across Dean's cheek, tracing the line of freckles there. "Oh, I don't know," he murmurs. "It kind of feels like we've always been working our way to here, don't you think?"

Dean rolls his eyes as he slides warm hands along Castiel's sides. "Less existentialism, more kissing, please."

Castiel is happy to oblige, clutching Dean's head between his hands as he leans down and captures his bottom lip with his teeth. "Kinky bastard," Dean mumbles against his mouth before opening up and letting Castiel in. Castiel licks his way across Dean's teeth and past them, finding Dean's tongue and sliding his own against it. Dean moans at the slick feel of it, moving his hands up to grasp Castiel's head and pull him down harder. He sucks on Castiel's tongue, pulling away long enough to catch his breath and suck on his upper lip before diving back in.

They both seem so carried away with finally being able to touch and kiss and taste that they don't realize they're rutting against each other until they've almost lost control. Dean is the one to pull back, to push Castiel away first, leaving Castiel grumpy and not wanting to stop.

"Dean, I wasn't finished," he pants against his neck.

Groaning, Dean squirms his hands between him and Castiel, gripping his shoulders and pushing him away. "Yeah, Cas, neither was I, but uh, I kinda don't want to do this anymore."

Castiel stills, staring down at Dean and resisting the urge to rub his erection against Dean for more blessed friction. "You're joking with me, right? Why were we just doing this if you didn't want to do it anymore?"

"What? No, Cas, not _this_ …" Dean waves a hand in the space between the two them, "…but _this_ here, in this room, under these circumstances," he elaborates, waving a hand around the room.

Castiel narrows his eyes, tilting his head as he tries to understand what Dean is saying. "…So, you're saying you don't want to do this here anymore?"

Dean grabs Castiel's hand and begins playing with it, entwining their fingers and stroking the bones of his knuckles "Yeah. I want…this is something _real_ between us, Cas, and it doesn't have anything to do with the club anymore. I wanna start seeing you outside of the club, I don't want you to be a customer anymore. I mean, if that's what you want, too…"

He lets his voice trail off as he stares down at their hands, waiting for Castiel's response. Castiel lifts his other hand and runs his fingers through Dean's hair, trying unsuccessfully to soften and flatten the gelled-up spikes. He leans down to kiss Dean on the forehead before whispering, "I would like that very much, Dean."

Dean lets loose a breath before giving Castiel another lengthy kiss. One kiss turns into three turns into full-on dry-humping before Dean is again gripping Castiel's shoulders and pushing him away.

"You're a fucking evil tempter, you know that? Here I am trying to protect my virtue and you're all but handing me that dick of yours on a silver platter," he chides.

"If a silver platter is what it will take to get you to surrender, I'm sure it can be arranged," Castiel murmurs as he licks a line along Dean's neck.

Chuckling, Dean pushes Castiel away as he stands up, jeans tenting in an absurdly comical way. "Enough! I need to get home so I can jack off like a proper gentleman and get some sleep, and you need to go and learn how to control your urges better." He offers a hand to Castiel to help him off the couch. "So, when can our official first date be?" he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Castiel chuckles. "What about Saturday night? If you want, you can bring Sam over during the day to visit with Zeppy, then take him home and return that evening. Would you be able to take off from the club?" he asks, leaning over to grab his coat. Once again, he's grateful he remembered to bring the coat along because he doesn't fancy trying to walk through the club hiding the effects of their makeout session.

"Uh, yeah, I can probably swing that. Nick owes me anyway, so I can just get him to cover my shift. He'd be happy to get the extra tips."

Dean doesn't stop touching Castiel as he walks him to the door, running a hand along his back, stroking his shoulder blades and leaning in to kiss Castiel's neck. Castiel stops at the door and turns, wrapping his arms around Dean and pulling him tight.

"I missed you, Cas," Dean mumbles against the fabric along his shoulder.

"I missed you too. I'm sorry," Castiel whispers back, leaning in to nuzzle at Dean's jaw, tongue peaking out to sneak a taste. He will never get enough of tasting and touching now that he can.

They stand there holding onto each other until Dean yawns. 

Castiel pulls back, laughing. "And I suppose that's my cue to say goodnight."

He lays a palm against Dean's cheek before leaning in to place a lingering kiss on his lips. When he pulls back, they gaze at each other with matching smiles on their faces.  
"Goodnight, Dean."

"Goodnight, Cas. Sweet dreams."

***************************


	10. Chapter 10

Dean glides through the next two days in a happy haze, not even ashamed to be caught wearing a goofy grin by coworkers. His only complaint is that Saturday takes way too fucking long to get here, but once it does, he wakes up bright and early and rushes out to get started on his morning job with the lawn care service. He only has a handful of yards to take care of before diving back to his apartment to get cleaned up so he can go pick up Sam.

Sam seems suspicious the moment he climbs in the car, long, awkward limbs folding into the seat. He stares at Dean for a couple of beats, and Dean flushes because he knows there's no point in trying to hide anything from him. 

Sure enough, "Dude, what's going on?" Sam asks, eyes narrowed.

Dean keeps his eyes on the road, pulling out from the curb and heading to Big Pepe's for lunch. "Um, with what?"

"You keep trying not to smile. The only time you do that is when you're about to prank me or when you're trying not to laugh at me." Sam side-eyes Dean suspiciously before adding, "Or when you got lucky the night before."

Dean can't help the full-on grin that breaks out on his face at that, and Sam rolls his eyes. "Oh, ew, Dean. Who's the unlucky girl _this_ time? You didn't hook up with a waitress at the club again, did you? I'd hoped you learned your lesson after that psycho one almost got you fired."

"Hey, I thought we agreed we'd never speak of that again," Dean whines, shuddering.

"Sooo, without any graphic details, or really without any details _at all_ , who's got you looking so happy? I feel like I should thank her, 'cause I haven't seen you looking this relaxed in, like, forever."

Dean coughs and clears his throat, nervous to admit to his brother that the she is actually a he, but he knows if he doesn't 'fess up the kid will figure it out as soon as they get to Cas's. "It's, uh…it's Cas."

Sam stares at him, his mouth open wide. Dean glances over at him every few seconds, wondering if he just discovered a way to render his brother mute. "Dude, you plan on saying anything else today, or you want me to start driving around looking for some sign language classes?" 

"I KNEW you were flirting!" Sam exclaims.

Dean winces at the noise level of Sam's screech, trying to keep his attention focused on the road instead of the obnoxious little brother having a laughing fit in the seat next to him. "Sammy, I swear to God, if you don't stop laughing I will pull over and beat the shit out of you, then give you a wedgie, and _then_ call your girlfriend and tell her you still sleep in diapers."

"Your threats to call Jess won't work anymore, because I told her all about you and said not to believe anything you ever say to her," Sam retorts, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Yeah, we'll see how much she listens to that when I tell her you like to stare into the mirror and sing 'I Feel Pretty.'"

"Dean!"

Dean sighs as he pulls into a parking space at Big Pepe's and turns the engine off. "Look, Sammy…I was worried as fuck to tell you this, okay? And you laughing it up doesn't do anything to make me feel better."

He leans forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. It's already hot as the Sahara in the car even though he only just turned the A/C off, and he grimaces as a bead of sweat rolls down his neck and between his shoulder blades. He can feel Sam's eyes boring into him, and finally he turns his head to meet his little brother's gaze.

"You really like this guy, don't you?" Sam asks quietly, a look of surprised wonder on his face.

Chewing his lip, Dean lets loose the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Yeah, I really kinda do. He's different, Sam. He's weird, and super smart, and funny, even though half the time I don't think he means to be, and he's nice, and he just…he seems to _get_ me, ya know?"

Dean refrains from listing other ways he likes Cas, how fucking off-the-charts hot the dude is, how sometimes Dean almost comes in his pants just thinking about the guy's mouth, how his voice is like insta-hard-on for him, how he wants to suck on the man's fingers for hours… _Yeah_ , Dean thinks, _to say I got it bad would be the understatement of the century_.

He watches as Sam turns to look out the windshield and leans back in his seat. After several beats, Sam sighs and says, "Well, at least your taste is improving. I think Cas might actually be worthy of you. _Maybe_."

If anybody ever asks Dean why he thinks his brother is pretty much the greatest little brother anyone could ever have, he'll point them to this moment.

***************************

They quickly scarf down lunch, and as Sam finishes off his soda Dean takes a moment to call Cas and let him know they'll be arriving at his place soon. Sam smirks at him across the table as Dean blushes while talking to Cas, unable to keep the grin off his face. Dean wads up tiny pieces of napkin and lobs spitballs at him in retaliation for the teasing, but Sam just dodges them and keeps on laughing until Dean hits him in the middle of his forehead with a painful-sounding thwack of his palm.

"Hey! That hurt, asshat!" Sam whines as he rubs the red spot forming on his forehead.

Dean says goodbye to Cas and _tsks_ at his brother. "Serves you right for being such a dick when I was on the phone."

"I wasn't being a dick, I was just smiling while watching you blush and bat your eyelashes talking to your boyfriend."

"Oh, that's it, I can't be held responsible for anything that happens to you from here on out," Dean says, leaning across the table in a flash to stuff a particularly wet spitball into Sam's ear.

"Ewww, Dean you are _disgusting_! Why anyone would want to go out with you is a mystery," Sam says, wiping his ear out with a dry napkin.

"Hey not even an hour ago you were talking about how awesome I am," Dean protests.

Sam scoffs, "Yeah, well that was before you reminded me what an asshole you are."

Dean scoots out from behind the booth, laughing as he pulls a couple bills out of his pocket and throwing them on the table for a tip. "Yeah, whatever, Bambi. Come on, let's go before Cas starts to think we killed each other."

***************************

When they arrive at Castiel's apartment, Sam thankfully tones down his annoying little brother tendencies, greeting Cas as if he's none-the-wiser about the relationship between him and his big brother. He does take a moment to look back at Dean and give him a smirk before bending down to pick up Zeppy, laughing at how she wriggles in excitement.

Dean and Cas smile at one another, both ridiculously shy and nervous and not sure what to say to each other. Dean wants nothing more than to reach for Cas, pull him forward and into his arms and kiss the breath out of him, but he's not so sure Cas is ready for doing that in front of other people. Hell, Dean's not sure if _he's_ ready for it, especially not in front of Sam. But still, he can't help but keep looking at Cas and biting back a grin, feeling like the cat that got the canary.

It doesn't help that Castiel is wearing faded jeans and a form-fitting tee, not _too_ tight, but just tight enough to give Dean a good idea of the corded muscles across his arms and back. What Cas has been hiding under the ill-fitting business suit and trench is that he's fit as _hell_ , and Dean's mouth waters a bit as he imagines being with someone who can give as good as he gets. He's never really been with someone as strong as Castiel looks, and his imagination starts to run a little crazy at all the possibilities that could mean in bed.

Dean shakes his head to try to clear his mind a bit, now really not being the time to start fantasizing about all the things he wants to do to Cas, or have Cas do to _him_. He looks back up at him, catching the man staring at him with lips parted and wet. Dean leans forward, wrapping his index finger and thumb around Cas's wrist as he whispers, "I can't wait until tonight."

Castiel huffs a breathy laugh, and Dean can feel his eyes on his back as he walks into the den, taking a seat on the floor next to Sam and ruffling Zeppy's fur. The dog has gained a couple pounds since they dropped her off two weeks ago, and seems really happy and content. It looks as though Cas has done as much for her as she's been doing for him, and even though Dean doesn't really believe in fate or destiny or any of that bullshit, he can't help but think maybe they were meant to find her and bring her here.

"I discovered earlier this week that there's a dog park on the outskirts of the park across the street," Castiel says, standing above them. "I thought it might be fun for us to go there with Zeppy this afternoon, especially since the weather is so nice."

Sam laughs as Zeppy climbs up his chest to lick at his cheek. "That'd be awesome, Cas. You wanna go now?"

Castiel nods. "I'm ready whenever you both are."

Sam and Dean stand up and make their way to the door while Cas grabs Zeppy's leash and tries to still her wiggling body long enough to snap it on. He hands the leash over to Sam, letting the brothers walk in front of him as he locks the door behind them. As they step into the elevator, he places his hand against the small of Dean's back, rubbing circles with his thumb and sending shivers all the way down to Dean's toes.

Oh yeah, it's gonna take every ounce of self control Dean has not to dry hump this guy into next year before their date tonight.

***************************

That afternoon at the park is pretty much one of the best afternoons Dean has ever had. It's a warm, sunny day, just this side of too hot, but the breeze through the trees is enough to keep everyone from bitching about the heat. Dean leans back in the grass on his elbows, enjoying the shade from a large oak tree. Cas has his back propped against the trunk of the tree and is busy watching Sam play with Zeppy. Dean sneaks glances at Cas through hooded lashes, amazed at how loose and free he seems from the first time they met.

His back is still a little straighter than how most people would sit, but Dean can spy a hint of a slouch in the man's broad shoulders. He smiles more often now, but still not near enough to Dean's liking. Dean's quickly growing a fondness for the way Cas's nose scrunches when he smiles big, all gummy teeth and crinkles around the edges of his eyes that shouldn't be anywhere near as adorable as they actually are. The man still seems almost surprised when he finds himself laughing every once in a while, kinda like he's not used to doing it, and Dean vows to himself to make Cas laugh as much as he can, no matter what he has to do to bring it out. He's pretty sure the man's deep-chested giggle could make unicorns shit sparkles and saves the lives of puppies and kittens everywhere, and Dean has to hide a smile behind his hand at the thought of what Cas would say if he ever told him that.

Cas starts showing Sam all the tricks he's taught Zeppy, and it's amazing to see how much she minds him. She's not a bad dog to begin with, but when Cas is in front of her it's like she can't take her eyes off him, just waiting to see what he has to say. Dean chuckles to himself as he realizes he can relate to that. 

Sam and Dean's favorite trick, by far, is the shoot 'em dead trick. Cas points his index finger at the dog, his thumb perpendicular. "Bang, bang," he says, face serious.

Zeppy rolls over onto her back, curling herself into a comma shape and sticking her legs up in the air. She sticks her tongue out and plays dead like she's been stiff for days, and it's simultaneously hilarious and cool as fuck. Both Dean and Sam fall over into the grass, clutching their stomachs in fits of laughter.

Cas has a smug, proud look on his face as he sits back down, leaning against the tree as Zeppy jumps in his lap.

"Cas, oh my god, that shit is hilarious," Dean struggles to say, wiping tears from his eyes. "Where the hell did you learn to teach her that?"

Clearing his throat, Cas looks down at Dean, who's lying face-up in the grass, head parallel to Cas's thigh. "Youtube has many uses," he says. 

Dean stares up at him, holding his breath as he watches Castiel reach down to run a hand through his hair. When he pulls it back, he shows Dean a blade of grass that was apparently stuck in his hair, and they continue to gaze at each other until they hear Sam cough. _Oh yeah_ , Dean thinks. _We're kind of in public, and with my little brother_.

"So, Cas, what other tricks does she know?" Sam asks.

Castiel scoots forward, closer to Sam, and Dean struggles to resist the urge to run his fingers up under the man's t-shirt, what with the hem of the shirt riding up and exposing pale skin underneath.

 _Fuuuuuck_ , he thinks. _If I survive until tonight without dying of blue balls, I'll deserve a fucking medal_.

***************************

As the sun begins to set, Dean and Sam walk Castiel and Zeppy back to the apartment, and things start to feel awkward again as they begin to say their goodbyes, both Dean and Cas aware they'll be seeing each other again in just a few short hours.

"So, uh, did you have any place in mind of where you want to go tonight?" Dean asks, watching Sam say goodbye to Zeppy and trying not to sound too much like a dork on prom night.

Castiel leans against the back of the sofa, crossing his arms across his chest. "Actually, I was thinking I might cook us dinner, instead of going out," he replies. "If you don't mind, of course," he adds quickly.

Dean knows the reason for staying in is most likely due to Cas's aversion to going out in public, but he can't help hoping that maybe it has something to do with privacy and getting Dean all to himself, as well. Whatever the reason though, he's totally on board with it.

"No way, I don't mind at all! Well, I mean, I guess it depends on if you're a good cook or not, and what you're planning on fixing. Please tell me you're not vegetarian, I don't know if I can ever recover if you don't eat meat."

Dean is cringing before the words have even left his mouth, but thankfully Castiel doesn't catch onto the sexual innuendo because he only chuckles before saying, "No, actually I had planned on making lasagna. Lots of red meat and cheese, but there will be a salad beforehand."

"As long as you bring the meat, I don't mind some tossed salad." _Seriously? Did I seriously just say that?_ Dean wonders if it's possible for a person to consume their entire foot in one gulp while he watches Castiel's eyes go wide as he chokes in response to his words.

"I don't know whether to be horrified by that or to give you some sort of medal," Castiel replies, face red from coughing, but eyes glittering with amusement.

"Shut up, this is how you know I'm me and not a pod person," Dean mutters, blushing in spite of himself at the way Cas is smiling at him. "I always stick my foot in my mouth at least once per conversation."

"You ready, Dean?" Sam stands up and starts walking towards the door.

"Yep, let's head out, freakazoid," Dean says, turning to follow.

"Thanks for letting us come over, Cas," Sam says. "I had a lot of fun today."

Cas smiles, reaching a hand out to Sam for a handshake. "It was my pleasure, Sam. I don't know if Dean's told you yet, but you're both welcome to visit anytime. I consider Zeppy just as much your pet as mine."

Sam looks down at Castiel's hand, but instead of grasping it with his own he steps forward and wraps his arms around the man. Castiel seems stunned at first, unsure of what to do. His body is stiff, arms hanging down limp at his sides while he looks over Sam's shoulder at Dean. Dean is holding his breath, watching and waiting to see how Cas will respond, his heart twisting at how fucking sweet his little brother can be when he wants to be.

When Cas lifts his arms and wraps them around Sam, squeezing him into a tight hug, Dean pretty much loses it, has to turn away before he starts crying like a fucking baby. It was really important to him that Sam and Castiel got along well, but he'd had no idea just _how_ important until now. This is a huge concern that's been lifted off his shoulders. If Sam hadn't liked Cas, then anything going further between Dean and Cas would have been a no-go.

"Thanks for everything, Cas," Sam mutters against his shoulder.

Cas looks up at Dean and holds his gaze. "You're welcome, Sam."

Dean smiles a watery smile at him before clapping his hands, breaking this scene up before it turns even more chick-flicky. "Alright, Samantha, let's get this show on the road before you start your period."

"Gross, Dean!" Sam protests, pulling away from Cas and starting for the door. "Bye, Cas, I'll see you later," he mumbles, opening the door and walking out into the hallway.

Dean winks at Cas as he turns from the doorway. "See you about eight o'clock?"

"Yes, eight will be perfect," Cas replies.

Dean follows Sam to the elevator, but stops about halfway down the hallway. "Wait a minute, I forgot something," he mutters, not able to resist sneaking back for a moment. "You go on down, I'll meet up with you in a sec."

Sam smirks, but doesn't say a word as he steps onto the elevator. Dean walks quickly back to Castiel's door, knocking three fast taps with his knuckles before Cas opens it. His brow knits in confusion as he sees Dean, but can barely say "Wha—" before Dean has nudged the door open and placed a hand on each shoulder, pushing Cas against the wall and trapping him there as he presses against him.

Sliding a hand up to cup Cas's jaw, Dean leans in, presses his mouth against Cas's urgently, licking a path in to find Cas's tongue and teasing it with his own. Cas gasps, hands grabbing onto Dean's waist and pulling him in tighter before Dean slips a thigh between Cas's own. Cas moans at the friction against his dick, throwing his head back and knocking it against the wall.

"Ow," he mutters, panting, as Dean laughs and nuzzles at the bolt of Cas's jaw. Kissing his way back over to his mouth, Dean presses a sweet kiss against his lips.

"Just needed a taste to get me by until tonight," he breathes into Cas's mouth.

He can feel Cas's hands flexing, gripping his waistband tighter. "Dean, if you don't leave now, I may not be able to let you leave before I have my way with you," Cas growls.

Dean huffs, trying to catch his breath. "Point taken. I'll see you tonight, Cas." He turns to leave, clinging to Cas's hand and staring back at him as he opens the door.

"Don't be late, Dean," Castiel chides, doing his damnedest to look proper while sporting a hard-on through his jeans that a porn star could be proud of.

Dean laughs as he closes the door behind him. "Don't you worry about that, Cas."

When Dean slides into the driver's seat, he can feel Sam staring at him with a stupid grin on his face. "Get what you needed?"

Dean starts the car, refusing to look at his brother. "Shut up," he mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Sam snorts as they drive away.

***************************

Two hours later finds Dean knocking on Castiel's door again, this time alone. Before Cas even opens the door, Dean can smell something delectable cooking, and when he gets a glimpse of Cas, hair sticking out in every direction – seriously, if Dean thought his hair before was sex hair, then this is fucked-into-the-mattress-and-put-away-wet hair – and a splotch of red meat sauce on his cheek, he can't help but push Cas against the wall and lick the sauce off his face.

Castiel grunts, feigning an attempt to push Dean away, but it's obvious his heart isn't in it, especially when he starts laughing. "Cas, I think this may be the best sauce I've ever tasted," Dean murmurs, smiling against Cas's mouth.

Matching the grin with his own, Castiel takes the time to nibble at Dean's lip before answering. "Would that be because it tastes just that good, or because you could taste me along with it?"

Dean cackles before pulling back. "You're a cocky sonuvabitch, aren't you?"

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "I notice you didn't answer the question."

"Yeah, yeah, you're a nummy treat. When's dinner ready?"

Rolling his eyes, Castiel places a hand on Dean's chest, pushing him away so he can walk into the kitchen. "I just need to pop the garlic bread in the oven, and the lasagna should be done about the same time the bread is."

"Oh my god, you made garlic bread? I don't know if I should marry you or be offended."

Castiel tilts his head in that way that reminds Dean of a baffled puppy. "Why would you be offended by garlic bread?"

"Uh, that's not the best thing to be eating if you plan on getting lucky later, if you know what I mean," Dean scoffs.

The bitchface Cas sports makes Dean wonder if Sam had had time to give him lessons earlier today. "That's what mouthwash is for, Dean."

"Oh. Well, in that case, garlic me up, Master Chef," Dean says, winking across the counter at Cas.

Cas shakes his head and does his best to look exasperated as he slides the sheet of bread sticks in the oven under the lasagna. When he turns back, Dean has maneuvered his way around, placing a hand on the counter to either side of him, trapping him. "How long until it's done?" he asks, kissing a line down the side of Cas's neck.

"About fifteen minutes," Cas whispers, voice hoarse.

Dean grins against the fluttering pulse underneath Cas's skin. "Fifteen minutes is plenty of time for a damn thorough makeout session, don't you think?" he asks playfully, running a finger under the hem of Cas's shirt.

"I was planning on us eating our salads while we waited for dinner to be ready," Cas says, voice shaky.

Dean pulls his head back far enough to meet Cas's eyes. "Are you seriously saying you'd rather eat rabbit food than make out with me?"

He watches as Cas's eyes follow his tongue as he licks his lips. "Good point," murmurs Cas, before grabbing Dean's hand and pulling him into the den. They have to push Zeppy off the couch because she seems to think house guest equals playmate, and Dean laughs as Cas mutters to the dog, "Dean is here to play with _me_ , not you, tonight."

Castiel's couch is big enough for them to lay on their sides facing each other, and they quickly lose themselves in the moment, hands never gaining enough purchase of each other's skin, tongues never finding enough places to taste and discover. Cas slides a leg over Dean's, slipping a hand underneath the waistband of Dean's jeans to grip his ass. Dean groans at the touch, rolling his hips against Cas. Dean works his way down Cas's neck, gasping when he feels Cas's erection against his thigh. Cas begins rocking his hips, desperate for friction against his dick, and when Dean finally works a leg in between Cas's he almost comes when Cas reaches down and grabs his denim-clad cock.

"Ah, fuck, _Jesus_ , Cas, you feel so fucking amazing," Dean mumbles, not sure of what he's saying but just feeling the urgency to say _something_ while bells and whistles go off in his head to celebrate that he's highly likely to get laid in a really fucking epic and monumental way tonight. Or maybe not so much bells and whistles as a high-pitched beeping that goes on and on, and as it continues, Dean also starts to smell something strange, like something burning. Before he can say something, though, he feels Castiel's body go still next to him before the man jumps up and starts trying to disentangle himself.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , the garlic bread is burning," Cas yelps, panicked. He clambers over Dean, tripping on his jeans and knocking a knee into the coffee table. Dean hisses in sympathy and watches as Castiel stumbles into the kitchen, grabbing an oven mitt and pulling the oven door open. Smoke billows out, and Castiel continues cursing, but as sad as Dean is about no garlic bread, he's pretty damn okay with it, considering the hot-ass making-out that caused the destruction.

He watches from the sofa as Castiel tries to salvage what he can of the bread. "Hey Cas, you need me to do anything?" He's not sure how much good he'll do, given the painfully hard erection he's still sporting, but he's willing to try all the same.

He hears Castiel sigh as he wipes his brow with the back of his arm. "No, thank you. Just…why don't you put on some music. I've got iTunes set up on my laptop over there on the desk."

"Wait, you mean you don't have a proper stereo?"

Castiel shrugs. "I didn't think one was necessary, since my computer seems perfectly acceptable for listening to music."

Dean hangs his head, feeling shame for the man. "Dude, Cas…you have so much to learn. Thank god you have me in your life now."

"Yes, I thank my lucky stars for it every day," Castiel replies, voice dripping with sarcasm, but when Dean glances over at him as he steps to the computer he finds a fond smile on his face.

"So, uh, how do I start this thing?" Dean asks, never one to be comfortable with computers.

"Just click any button on the keyboard and it'll turn back on," Cas calls from the kitchen.

Dean does as he's told, and the screen lights up, different windows open of what Cas must have previously been working on. Dean's eyes scroll around the desktop, looking for the iTunes icon, but he accidentally hits on a Skype message chat instead. Before he can minimize it, Dean's eyes catch his name, and before he can stop himself he starts reading. And what he finds turns his blood cold, making him feel like he's going to vomit and pass out.

Instead, he stands up and walks into the kitchen, eyes seeing red and blood rushing so fast and loud in his ears he's surprised he can hear anything at all. He grits his teeth, watching Castiel flutter around the kitchen trying to finish up making dinner.

"Did you want beer or wine with dinner? Or I have soda or water, if you'd prefer," Castiel says, not looking up from spooning lasagna onto a plate.

"Cas," Dean says, voice deadly calm. "What's your new book about?"

Castiel looks up at Dean, confusion spreading across his face. "I…I haven't exactly decided on it yet."

"Bullshit."

Castiel's eyes go wide, his hands stilling as he straightens his back. "Dean, what are you…I don't understand what—"

"I saw that message chat you were having with your editor about me. You're writing a book about me, aren't you?"

"What? No, I, I mean, I wasn't going—"

"Don't you fucking lie to me, you piece of shit. All this time, you've just been using me for a story, haven't you?"

Dean turns away, stalks back towards the den, because he can't stand to look at Castiel right now, can't stand to be that close to him. "All of this has just been a lie, hasn't it?" he chokes out. "You were gonna use my life, all the shit that's happened to me and to Sammy, and put it in a fucking book and make money off it, Oh, look at the poor pitiful orphan boys, aren't they pathetic? Look at how he has to take his fucking clothes off to get the love his daddy never gave him."

Castiel ranges up behind Dean, ducks around him nimbly, and his face is pale as he reaches for Dean. "Dean, please, listen to me, that's not what—"

Dean slaps Castiel's hand away. "Don't you fucking touch me. Game's over, Cas. You don't have to pretend anymore. Find another ending for your fucking book, because this one sure as hell ain't a happy one."

He grabs his keys and stalks to the door, Castiel following close behind, reaching out again and putting a hand on Dean's shoulder to turn him around.

"Dean please, if you would just stop and listen to me, I can explain—"

"I swear to God, if you ever lay a fucking hand on me again, I will punch your fucking lights out."

Dean twists out of Castiel's grasp and opens the door. He looks over his shoulder to snarl, "If you ever come near me or Sam again, you won't get away as easy as you did tonight."

He slams the door behind him, blood pounding in his ears and eyes blind to anything around him as he rushes down the hallway. He waits until the elevator door has slid shut before he lets the tears fall.

***************************


	11. Chapter 11

"Hello, Pamela."

"Castiel! How are you, sugar? Were we supposed to Skype today? I didn't have a meeting scheduled…"

"No, we weren't. I just…I have something to tell you and I'd rather do it over the phone than through an email."

"…Okay, that sounds ominous. What's up?"

"I won't be writing the stripper novel."

" _What_?! Cas, it's a done deal. You are contracted to write it."

"Pam, it's Dean…he saw one of our IM conversations on my computer Saturday night. He was so upset, he wouldn't let me explain what the book really is. He…he was so furious. He felt betrayed, and rightly so. I should have told him about this from the beginning."

"Yeah, you should have. But he should have let you explain yourself, too. Have you tried calling him?"

"No, I can't. He said he never wanted to talk to me again. I've ruined everything, Pam. The look on his face as he was leaving…he'll never be able to trust me again."

"Well, regardless, you don't need his permission to write the book, Cas. You aren't using enough details about him or his life that it would require consent."

"I'm aware of that, of course. But I wouldn't feel right about continuing with it now I know how much he is against the idea."

"But Cas, you haven't even given him a chance to have an informed opinion about it! Explain it to him before you write him _and_ the book off completely."

"I'm sorry, Pam. I just can't. I'll continue on with the Angel series, and send you the next chapter as soon as it's finished."

"Just…give it a week, Cas. That's all I'm asking. I won't tell my boss for another week. Think about it, okay?"

"…Fine. One week. And I'll call you next Monday to let you know what I've decided."

"Alright. Bye, Cas."

"Goodbye, Pam."

Pamela hangs up the phone, lays her head down on her desk, closes her eyes, and proceeds to wish this morning away. It's not enough that Zachariah has enlisted her to be the editor for her least favorite client at the firm – a no-talent hack who wouldn't know a decent sentence if it tattooed itself across his forehead – but now her favorite author is having yet another meltdown. 

Problem is, Castiel isn't just her favorite client. He's also her friend, someone she's grown to care about very much over the past several years. Like she always does when they touch base, she recalls their first meeting, and the odd, alien-like enigma who sat opposite her watching her with laser-blue eyes that seemed to see right into her soul. She almost didn't agree to publish him, given what a horrible interview he was, but his novel was so brilliant that she couldn't help but take it to her boss and implore that they snag him before some other firm did.

From then on, their working relationship was a rocky road for quite a while, especially when Pam sent his first draft back to him with edits. Castiel didn't take too kindly to someone correcting or changing his words, but they eventually worked out an agreement that was acceptable to them both. And as those first months wore on, Pam began to realize that what she thought was arrogance and rudeness was actually a painful and debilitating fear of social situations, or really, of any kind of situations where he had to leave the safety of his home. It took Pam quite a long time to drag the reasons for it out of him, and she's still not quite sure she's got the full story, but she has enough to know that Castiel has lived a very lonely life.

Until recently, that is. The change that she's seen in her friend over the past few months has been extraordinary. If she were completely honest, she never thought she'd see the day when Castiel would leave his home so willingly, or when he would invite someone into his life so openly. From what she's seen and heard, this dancer is the best thing to ever happen to Castiel, and if this really is the end of whatever was going on between them, Pam's not so sure he'll ever recover from it.

She can't just stand by and watch her friend regress into what he was before, watch Castiel be too afraid to ever try to be happy again. So that's why she lifts her head, opens her browser, and starts searching for flights to Wichita.

***************************

Angels and Demons is about what Pam had expected for a high-brow strip club, though the whole "equal opportunity" vibe, with both male and female strippers, is a refreshing change. She takes a seat at a table close to the stage, and has to bite her lip to keep from laughing as a sad, scrawny, bearded man in what looks to be a toga approaches her.

"Welcome to Angels and Demons," he drones. "I'm Chuck, and I'll be your prophet for this evening. What can I get you to drink? And yes, I know I should be able to foretell your drink order since I'm a prophet, but uh, my future-seeing abilities aren't what they used to be, okay?"

Pam stares up at him as he recites all of this in a monotone, and she realizes with a start that her other reason for being here was just thrown in her lap. "You are the prophet…Chuck?" she teases.

Chuck doesn't do much to try to hide the rolling of his eyes, which only serves to amuse Pam even more. "Yes, I am the prophet Chuck. I'm one of the newer prophets, alright?" he mutters, turning his head to stare into the crowd as if he's looking for a way out of this miserable existence.

Laughing, Pam reaches up to grab Chuck's hand, pulling him into a seat next to her. "Oh honey, so you're Chuck Shurley, right?"

Chuck's face scrunches up in suspicion. "How did you know my last name? Wait…are you a bill collector? Because that's not my last name. If you are, that is."

"Sugar, I'm not a bill collector, I am here to make your life better, if you're willing," Pam winks at the waiter.

Confused, Chuck stares at her for several seconds. "Are you a hooker? Did Mistress Magda send you?"

Pam huffs and clears her throat. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't just ask if I was a hooker so we can move on, okay? My name is Pamela Barnes, and I'm an editor at Half Light Publishing."

Chuck's eyes go comically wide as his jaw drops. "Oh my god, are you here about my book? Did you read my book?!"

Pam smiles warmly. This is one of her favorite parts of her job. "Yes, I read your book. And so did my boss. We want to offer you a contract to publish it."

Chuck looks around the room quickly. "Is this a joke? Is Ed playing a joke on me? I'm gonna kill that douchewad if—"

"Chuck, look at me." Pam pauses until his eyes are focused on her. "This is not a joke. We loved your book, and we want to make you an offer for it. And if it does well, we'll probably want to turn it into a series, if you're game."

"Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god_."

"Breathe, Chuck."

"Does this mean I can quit my job now? I've dreamed of the day I can quit this job. If I don't see another nutsack for the rest of my life, it'll be a day too soon."

Pam laughs. "Well, I wouldn't quit it immediately. We've got to work out all the little details. But if all goes well, then soon, sugar pie."

Chuck grasps her hand between his two sweaty palms. "Oh man, thank you so much, Ms. Barnes. I just…you have no idea how long I've waited for this."

Smiling, Pam squeezes his hand before pulling out of his grip, resisting the urge to wipe her palm on a napkin. "I've got a pretty good idea. And you need to thank Castiel more than you need to thank me. If it wasn't for him, I probably never would have even read it."

Chuck nods his head vigorously. "I will! I'll thank him as soon as the next time I see him."

Pam leans forward. "Speaking of Castiel, could you arrange for me to have one of those private dances with the dancer he's so fond of?"

"Uh, sure, I guess. It's Tyler Page. He's due up on stage next. Then he'll start his private dances about half an hour or so after that. It's a hundred and fifty bucks cash."

Pam slides open her wallet, counts bills, and hands over a wad of cash to Chuck. "It's a good thing I have an expense account."

"Whoa, work pays for you to get a striptease? Maybe I should get into the publishing business."

Pam smirks. "It definitely does have its perks."

***************************

After getting an eyeful of Tyler Page's stage performance, Pam maneuvers through the crowd and finds her way to the VIP hallway. She approaches the skinny guy with the mullet who's loitering outside the doors.

She smiles up at the man. "Hi, I'm Pam, I believe Chuck arranged for a dance with Tyler Page for me?"

"Yes, ma'am, yes ma'am, right this way!" the kid says through an oily grin. "Chuck said to treat you like the very VIP of the VIPs, so you get first crack at Mr. Page tonight, along with a complimentary bottle of champagne. Both literally and figuratively, if you get my drift."

Pam raises an eyebrow and chuckles. "I just need a few minutes alone to talk with Tyler, honey. No figurative champagne shenanigans are needed, no matter how delicious Mr. Page is."

"Hey, whatever floats your boat, senorita. Come on in here and take a seat where ever you want and Tyler will be in with you uno momento."

He closes the door behind Pam, leaving her in the room alone as she waits for Tyler. Or Dean, rather. She walks around the room, eyeing the furniture critically, but she doesn't have to busy herself for too long, because after a couple minutes the door opens up, and Dean strolls in. When their eyes meet, he smiles and winks. 

"Hey there," he says, voice deep and husky.

"Hello yourself, sugar," Pam replies, making her own voice extra throaty. 

Dean's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he smirks and steps away towards a set of speakers on the opposite wall. "You got any preferences for music or anything else tonight?" he says, his back to Pam as he busies himself.

"Actually honey, I was kind of in the mood to talk tonight."

"Uh, okay," Dean says slowly as he turns around. "What did you have in mind to talk about?"

Pam stares at him, waiting a few seconds before replying, "Castiel."

She watches closely as a bevy of emotions cross the man's face – shock, hope, sadness, and anger are the few she thinks she can interpret.

"Who are you?" he demands, body tense.

Pam takes a seat before answering. "My name is Pamela Barnes. I'm Castiel's editor. And his friend," she adds, as she watches Dean roll his eyes.

"So, what?" he snaps. "You here to try to get me to sign over the rights to my life? So Cas can go and tell everyone about me, make everyone laugh or feel sorry for the poor stupid orphan who has to strip to feel love, or some shit like that?"

Pam narrows her eyes, but doesn't respond.

"Well, fuck that shit. I'm not signing over any rights to that asshole. He fucking lied to me, pretended to be…" His voice cracks, and he turns his back on Pam before continuing, "…pretended to be my friend, when all the time he was just getting information for his book. He lied to me and to my brother, and what he's writing…it's gonna hurt me and Sam more than anyone ever has, and that's saying a fucking lot, given the shit we've been through."

He turns around to face Pam again, eyes narrow and cold. "So, you can take that sweet ass of yours back to where ever you came from, because I'm not signing over nothing."

Pam crosses her arms across her chest and doesn't back down from Dean's hard stare. "Are you finished?"

A look of confusion crosses Dean's face for a split second before he stares down at her and nods. "Yeah, so?"

She rolls her eyes. "Because have I got a world of information for you, big boy." She looks Dean up and down. "Take a seat, honey. This may take a while, and I have a feeling you're gonna need to be sitting to take all this in." She pauses to give Dean another once over. "I'll give Cas this, he's got good taste because you are positively scrumptious. Though I wonder how much you've got going on upstairs."

"Hey!" Dean protests as he pulls a folded chair over from the wall. "If you want me to listen to what you have to say, maybe you should chill on the insults, lady."

Sighing, Pam pulls a leg up under her as she settles in her seat. "Sweetcheeks, I'm not here to coddle you. I'm here to tell you what you wouldn't give Cas a chance to say. Not that he tried hard to say it, since he's so stubborn he refused to call you. He said he wanted to abide by your wishes, but I think it's because he's a chickenshit."

Dean snorts. "How considerate of him, since he's the one planning to blare all my secrets out to the world."

"Now, you shush," Pam chides him. "First off, he's not planning to blare all your secrets out to the world."

Dean stares at her with disbelieving eyes. "Oh really? Then how do you explain what I saw in his little computer chat with you?"

Pam scoffs. "What you saw was Cas confiding in me about this new relationship he has, or _had_ , with you. I don't know if you know this, but Cas doesn't have many friends he can confide in. In fact, I'm it… me and his brother, who only shows up when he feels like it anyways."

A muscle twitches in Dean's cheek. "But I _saw_ you asking him how much of my life he was going to write about."

Pam leans forward. "Yes, and if you'd gone further in that IM chat, you'd have seen where Cas was reiterating to me, once again, that he had no plans to include anything about you in it." She stops a moment to lean back, staring down at her hand. "Okay, yes, this book will be _very_ loosely based on things that have happened to you. But he plans to change so much of it that I guarantee you, if you'd just happened upon this book and read it without any knowledge of how it came about, you would _never_ have known that any of it was inspired by you."

Dean squints at her, biting his lip and remaining silent. Since he's not saying anything, she goes on. "His plan was to show it to you once he'd finished writing it. He wanted to get your approval before having it published." 

Dean continues to stare at her silently, as a look of uncertainty flits across his face. "In fact," Pam says, "that was one of two stipulations in his contract. That if you don't give your approval, the book will never see the light of day."

"So, what, if I said no, it would have never been published? Just like that?"

The look on Dean's face is one of suspicion, and Pam can't blame him. She was pretty shocked by Castiel's demand when he first informed her of it, too. For him to have worked so hard on it, and to be willing to throw it all away on the whim of one person is a hard pill to swallow, especially for her boss.

"Just like that," she states. She watches as Dean stares at the floor, trying to digest all of this information. "And sugar, just between us, I have to say, after having read the first couple of chapters…that man really cares for you. It's obvious in the respect he's showing this story and the characters."

Dean huffs. "And by _characters_ you mean me, right?"

"Honey, don't you roll your eyes at that. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have him in your corner? To have him seeing you for who you are, and understanding you like I'm guessing no one else has ever bothered to? Don't be a fool, Dean," she chides. She feels bad when Dean flinches at her words, but they needed to be said.

Dean scrubs a hand across his face and takes a deep breath. "Wait, you said that was one of two stipulations. What's the second one?"

Pam stares at him for several seconds, considering whether or not she should tell him. Finally, she makes a decision, sighing as she replies, "He's gonna kill me for telling you, but you need to know. I know he worried about you feeling obliged to be a certain way with him or obliged to give your consent if you knew this, but it needs to be said."

She stills for a moment, making sure Dean is giving her his undivided attention before carrying on. "The second stipulation in his contract is that all proceeds from the book would go into a trust fund for Sam Winchester."

A flood of emotions war across Dean's face, and even though Pam can see that he's trying desperately to hide them, what he's feeling is as plain as day. He opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to speak, but his bottom lip quivers as no words make their way out. His gaze stays focused on the floor, his eyes becoming glassy as tears well up, threatening to spill over.

Finally, he manages to find his voice, a whisper so low that Pam has to lean forward to catch his words. "Why would he do that?" His eyes dart up quickly to meet Pam's as he speaks, but look away again, almost as if he's afraid that if he makes eye contact he'll lose all semblance of control. 

"Oh honey," Pam murmurs. "Isn't it obvious why he would do it?"

Dean folds in on himself, placing his elbows on his knees and hiding his face in his hands. Pam looks away when she sees his shoulders begin to shake, wants to give him some feeling of privacy while he processes this. It's not every day when you find out the guy you just told to fuck off is so crazy in love with you that he wants to help put your little brother through school.

She turns back to stare at Dean as he raises his head and wipes away an errant tear. "I can't let him do this," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "He can't…it's not right. Sammy's _my_ responsibility, I—"

"Yes, he's your responsibility, and Cas wants to help ease your burden a bit."

"He's not a _burden_ , he's my brother!"

Exasperated, Pam sighs. "Yes, Dean, I know. And Cas wants to help you both out. He wants to give Sam a chance at a good life, and he wants to help you _start_ yours by relieving some of the financial burden."

She grasps Dean's hand and holds it between her own. "Cas told me quite a bit about the life you've led. I didn't give him much choice, so don't get your feathers in a bunch. I thought he was fucking insane to do this for someone he'd just met." She stares into his eyes as she continues. "He wants to do this because he feels you and Sam both were dealt a very shitty hand in life. And because you've helped him in ways you'll never be able to comprehend, and he feels he needs to repay you for that."

Dean shakes his head. "I haven't done shit for Cas. All I did was dance when he paid me for it, and listen to him talk sometimes, and—"

"And you gave him a reason to want to leave his house. You showed him that there's a whole world out here and that he doesn't need to live in fear of it. You showed him that sometimes, if you take a chance and take that leap, you don't fall flat on your ass. You made him want to be a part of the world and to live." She smiles, and goddamit if she can't feel her own eyes stinging. "Sugar, you may think what you did isn't much, but don't underestimate yourself. If Cas thinks you're worthy, then trust me. You're worthy."

Dean looks down at their joined hands, pulling away as he stands up. "I just – I can't accept this. It's too much. I don't know if I'd ever be able to repay him. I'd always feel like I owed him."

Pam nods. "Yeah, that's something you'll have to get over. I imagine it won't be easy for a macho tough guy like you."

She smirks when Dean narrows his eyes at her. "But if you wanna be a part of Cas's life, then you're gonna need to learn to get past this," she goes on. "The way Cas sees it, any profits from that book belong to you and your brother, since the book wouldn't even exist without you. As far as he's concerned, nothing will be owed."

She stands up and grabs her purse, making her way towards the door. "And now that I have passed on that information to you, I will be taking my leave." She stops in front of Dean and smiles lasciviously at him. "Unless, of course, you've still got time to do that dance for me."

Dean's eyes go wide as he shifts on his feet. "Uh, yeah, I guess if you want, I can—"

"Dean, I was teasing you. I wouldn't dream of having Cas's man do a sexy dance for me." 

She watches as Dean blushes at the implication that he's Castiel's man, and she steps forward to give him a hug. "Don't fight going to Cas, Dean. I think you both deserve a little happiness in your lives."

Smiling slightly, Dean nods his head. "Thanks for coming by, Pam. I'll…I need to think on it."

"Just don't think too long," she replies as she's walking out the door. "The longer you wait, the more miserable Cas gets."

***************************

Castiel is miserable.

The moment Dean stormed out of his apartment is something he will never forget. The shock and actual physical pain from it left him motionless, too stunned to lift an arm, let alone go about his evening. How could he pretend that the most important person in his life didn't just walk out his door, never to return? 

Now he feels as if a piece of himself has been carved out of his chest, leaving a gaping, fathomless hole that can never be filled again. Even so, he resists picking up the phone and calling Dean. No matter how much he wants to explain away what Dean saw, Castiel knows the biggest mistake he made was withholding the truth from Dean, and that can't be explained away. Dean had trusted him, with his secrets, with his fears, with his insecurities, and most of all, with his brother. 

Castiel's intentions had never been to hurt Dean; his motives were pure. He wanted to do what he could to help his friend, to relieve him of a small part of this burden and overwhelming responsibility that he has carried on his shoulders for the majority of his life. No one should ever have to go through what Dean has been through. And for him to pull through all of it, to still retain such a brilliant, warm, and caring heart, truly astonishes Castiel when he considers it. How anyone could make it through all of that and not be a broken, embittered and caustic soul amazes him.

But then again, everything Dean has done since the moment he first saw him has amazed him. Not least of which is trusting Castiel, especially as Castiel grew to learn just how difficult it is for Dean to trust anyone. He still doesn't quite understand why Dean chose to open up to him, to show him a part of himself that he never shares with anyone. Almost from the moment they first met, Castiel has felt a connection with Dean, something so powerful and undeniable that it has left him confused and breathless at times. He was beginning to wonder if Dean felt that connection as well, but now he supposes he may never know.

He feels like such a fool. In hindsight, he knows he should have approached Dean about the book before he ever wrote the first word. A part of him wanted to keep it as a surprise, hoping that Dean would be flattered and happy to know that he was the inspiration. But deep down, he thinks the real reason he kept it a secret was because he knew Dean wouldn't approve, wouldn't understand that he was doing this to try to help him. At this point, he fears his motives are beside the point. All that matters is Dean feels betrayed and used and hurt, and Castiel is the reason for it. The last thing that Castiel could ever want to happen is what has actually come to pass, and he feels helpless and despondent.

Castiel manages through the next several days by trying to keep to his daily schedule as best as possible. He immerses himself in his Angel series, writing with a zeal he hasn't felt in quite a while for the angels. And, of course, there's Zeppy to take care of, and she has proven herself invaluable for providing comfort. Castiel will never doubt again a dog's ability to sense a human's emotions, because she has been especially sweet and loving towards him since his fight with Dean. He's so grateful for her, and it reminds him yet again of how much joy Dean has brought him over the past months.

He reaches down to where Zeppy is curled up at his feet, running his fingers through her fur. As he does so, the phone rings, and as he reaches to answer it he notices on the caller ID that it's Gabriel calling.

"Hello, Gabriel."

"Hey, Cas, I'm about ten minutes away, just wanted to give you a head's up that I'm coming over."

"What, wait…why?"

"What, can't a guy pay his little bro a surprise visit from time to time?"

"Yes, a _guy_ can, but you're not just any guy."

"Aw, I'm touched, Cas. I'll see you in a few."

Gabriel hangs up before Castiel can protest, and with a sigh he sets the phone back into the handset. He'd rather not deal with Gabriel today, but he figures he doesn't have much choice at this point. 

When the doorbell rings several minutes later, he opens it to find Gabriel holding a large, greasy bag of food in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other.

"Beer and burgers, Cas! Don't ever say I don't love you!"

Castiel rolls his eyes and unsuccessfully tries to suppress a smile. "To what do I owe this late dinner? It's almost ten o'clock, Gabriel. You're lucky I forgot to eat."

Gabriel strolls into the apartment and throws the bag and beer down on the dining room table. "Oh, a little birdie told me you might need some cheering up."

Castiel furrows his brow, wondering what Gabriel could possibly mean, but before he can ask there's another knock on the door. "Oh, that little birdie also told me she might be stopping by here too, and I kinda wanted to see what that little birdie's tail feathers looked like."

As Castiel steps to the door, he spies Gabriel pulling a tequila bottle out of his coat pocket. "I heard that little birdie likes a mean shot of tequila, too," Gabriel says.

At this point, Castiel isn't at all surprised to find Pam when he opens the door. "Pamela, this is so unexpected," he says, with a weary sarcasm that has her snort as she saunters her way into the apartment. "And how are you?"

"I'm fine, Cas," she snips back. "And I'm sorry for landing on you unannounced, but your brother assured me he'd let you know I was…coming." 

She pauses as she spots Gabriel standing at the kitchen counter, pouring tequila into three shot glasses. "And you must be the infamous Gabriel," she smirks.

"It's not that I _must_ be, it's that I choose to be, because I am just that awesome," Gabriel retorts. "And you are the absolutely delectable Pamela Barnes. I must say, Cas really did not do your beauty and grace justice. He said you had a tight ass and sweet knockers, but I had no idea—"

"Gabriel! I never said anything like—"

"Yeah, yeah, he said you were lovely, and everything charming and demure, and all that jazz. But really, he should have been writing sonnets dedicated to your sweet milky—"

"Oh honey, you better get a few shots in me before you expect me to fall for that kind of spiel, okay?" Pam crows, shrugging off her jacket.

Gabriel's eyes go wide as his smile deepens. "I think that can be arranged, lovely Pamela."

Castiel really doesn't have the patience for this tonight, especially given how tired he suddenly feels. "Not to interrupt whatever mating ritual this seems to be, but why are you both here?" he gripes.

"Oh Cas, I'm sorry, honey," Pam says. "I called Gabriel Monday and told him that his brother needed some cheering up. And I was due for some vacation time, so I decided to fly down and check in on you, too." She walks over to Castiel and gives him a hug, which Castiel does his best to accept, albeit awkwardly. 

"I was worried about you, sweetie," she tells him, as she slaps his butt lightly.

Castiel pats her on the back before releasing her. "As I told you, Pam, I'm fine. Or I will be. Eventually."

Gabriel stands across the room, watching them. "What the hell happened, Cas? That hot-ass stripper break your heart again?"

Castiel winces, though he's not really sure which he takes offense to more, the _hot-ass stripper_ remark or the knowledge that he was the one doing the heartbreaking this time. "We…he discovered something that I should have informed him of beforehand, and he feels he can't trust me now. So, we uh, I suppose we're not seeing each other anymore."

Pamela watches his face as he speaks. "Oh, sweetie, I still think you should call him. Try to straighten things out. Tell him the truth. I really think once he hears the truth he'll forgive you."

Castiel shakes his head. "No, I don't want to go against his wishes. You didn't see him, Pam. He was so furious with me. The look on his face when he left…I don't think he'll ever forgive me."

"Okay, bro," Gabriel chips in. "This conversation is severely lacking in tequila and burgers, so both of you get your asses over here, pronto."

Castiel huffs in amusement. "I'll pass on the tequila and just have a beer and a burger instead. I'm still recovering from the last time you got me too drunk."

"Yeah, yeah, that may have been a bad night, but it was also one of the better nights of your life too, right? That was the first time you'd left your apartment in months, _and_ the first time you met chisel-chest. Not a bad evening in my book, if you know what I mean."

Castiel chooses to ignore Gabriel so that he can bite into his cheeseburger. He practically groans as the juices begin to escape down his chin, and he opens his eyes to find both Gabriel and Pam staring at him.

"You really like that cheeseburger," Pam muses.

"One thing you can always count on with Cas, the man loves him some meat," Gabriel quips. Pam snorts at the remark.

Castiel wipes his mouth before taking a swig of beer. Avoiding their eyes, he says, "I haven't really had much of an appetite since Saturday. So, this is…this is nice."

They both smile at him across the table. "Not just the food. The company is nice, too. Thank you, both of you, for coming," he continues.

Gabriel and Pam look at each other and lift their shot glasses, clinking them together. "Mazel tov," Pam says, before they both down their shots in one gulp.

After an hour of watching Gabriel and Pam flirt with each other under the guise of consoling and distracting Castiel, he calls them both a cab. He does truly appreciate them both caring enough to actually fly into town to check up on him, but there's only so much company he can take in one night, even in his new and improved state.

As he walks them both to the door, Gabriel gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek and a hug, leaving Pam to say her goodbyes. She places a hand on Castiel's arm, leaning in to whisper, "Cas, just promise me you'll think about calling him. And promise me that you'll keep your mind open to whatever he has to say, whenever you speak to him, okay?"

Castiel is perplexed by her words, but doesn't hesitate to agree with her. He wraps his arms around her, much more easily than before, and murmurs into her hair, "Yes, Pamela. I promise."

She steps on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek, and whispers in his ear, "You don't mind if I take your brother back to my room and rock his world, do you?"

"What? Oh god, Pam, no, just…I don't want to hear the details, alright?" he mutters, as she begins chuckling.

"Hear about what details?" Gabriel asks.

"Just…get out of here, and don't forget to eat your Wheaties, and…godspeed," Castiel says.

Pamela grins like the Cheshire cat as she grabs Gabriel's arm and begins pulling him down the hall. Castiel smiles slightly as he watches them leave, but as he closes the door, he remembers the night Dean stormed out of here. Clutching his stomach, he runs to the bathroom to vomit the late dinner and beer.

He takes comfort in Zeppy lying close by on the bathroom tile, whimpering in sympathy with each retch of his stomach.

***************************


	12. Chapter 12

Dean Winchester is the biggest chickenshit that ever lived. That's what he keeps telling himself as he tries and fails to work up the nerve to call Castiel after his editor's visit to the club Wednesday night. He _wants_ to call him, go to him with his tail tucked between his legs and beg Castiel to forgive him for being such a hot-head and not giving him a chance to explain himself. But every time he picks up the phone or reaches for his car keys he hesitates, starts thinking too hard and too much, and ends up losing his nerve.

He tries fooling himself into thinking it's because he doesn't like to admit when he's wrong, doesn't like to be the one who has to apologize. But deep down, he knows that's not the real reason he's so scared.

No, the real reason he can't find the gumption is because this is something really important to him. In fact, it might just be the most important thing he's _ever_ done, besides doing his best to take care of Sammy. This isn't some quick fuck. He can't even fool himself into believing it'll just be a casual relationship, one that will play itself out over a few weeks or months. He knows starting this with Cas will be starting something big, something that will change his life forever.

And that is some scary shit for Dean to be contemplating, given he has a hard time planning his next _week_ , let alone the rest of his life. But he can't kid himself anymore about this. He knew almost from the first moment he met Castiel's eyes that this man would play an important role in his life. He kidded himself into thinking he just had the hots for him, but deep down he knew that Cas _belonged_ here, with him and next to him, in a way that only family can, whether by blood or by choice.

Dean can't help but feel that he's going to ruin this, though. He will fuck this up and hurt Cas, just as he fucks everything up in his life. He will find a way to push Cas away or break his heart or show him what a fuckup he really is, so much of a loser that Cas will leave him and go off to find someone who doesn't get grease under his nails and grass stains on his knees by day, and take his clothes off and dance like a monkey for money by night.

It's only a matter of time before Dean ruins everything and loses everything, once again. Everything he touches gets broken, somehow some way. Except for Sammy. Dean hasn't a clue how he's been able to hang onto his brother all these years, God and the state childcare system know Dean doesn't deserve him. Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and crying out from night terrors, and they're always the same. Losing Sammy – in the fire, in the car wreck, in a crowded store, on a busy street, having him dragged away by faceless government drones in business suits claiming he needs to be apart from Dean for his own good – all the nightmares end the same, with Dean on his knees, doubled over, feeling as if his organs are being ripped from his body, gasping from the grief of losing Sam, of letting him down once again.

If something ever happened to Sam, Dean doesn't know how he'd cope. He's fairly certain he _wouldn't_ cope. Everything he does, everything he _is_ , is for Sammy.

But now there's Cas. And for the first time, Dean has something, or the potential of something, in his life that doesn't revolve around his brother. Something solely for Dean. And the thought of letting someone else in his life like this is terrifying. Dean's never been the type to love lightly, to let people pass in and out of his life and his heart with abandon. He doesn't let people in.

And he uses this as an excuse to not call Castiel Thursday or Friday. He needs to be sure he's ready for this before he goes to the man, because he knows once he sees Cas he won't have a choice. He needs to be sure he's ready to open himself up so completely and give himself over to his friend.

He chooses to ignore the tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him that he and Cas already belonged to each other from the moment they first met.

***************************

Saturday morning Dean spends his time working for the lawn care service as he usually does before rushing home to shower. He picks Sam up at their agreed time and drives them to lunch at Big Pepe's. Dean greets him with his usual insults, teasing Sam about his hair and the giant zit on his chin. He does his best to act as if nothing is wrong, but he knows it's impossible to hide his mood from his brother for long. As they sit in the booth across from each other at the restaurant, he can feel Sam's eyes boring into the top of his head while he stares at the menu.

He attempts to head Sam off at the worrywart pass. "Should I be daring and try that spaghetti enchilada? And if so, should I take some Pepto first?"

"Is something wrong, Dean?" Sam asks, voice heavy with concern.

Dean sighs. He contemplates brushing this off and not telling Sam what went down with Cas, but when it gets down to it, there's no one whose advice he trusts or respects more, especially with this mushy _feelings_ shit. "You know, your bad-mood radar is really fucking creepy, sometimes."

Sam shrugs. "You've been hugging me and won't stop rubbing my shoulders and pinching me and acting like a mom. You always get all touchy-feely when you're sad or upset."

Dean places his elbows on the table and scrubs at his face before hiding it in his hands. "Cas and I had a fight," he mutters through his fingers. "Well, I guess it was more than a fight, seeing as how I told him to fuck off and said I never wanted to see him again."

He sits there with his eyes closed and face hidden for he doesn't even know how long, waiting for Sam to say something. He listens to the bustle of the restaurant around him, idly wondering how such a shithole can be this busy on a Saturday afternoon. He opens his eyes and turns his head, looking at the other customers. _How many of these people are here trying to keep their broken family together by taking them on a state-mandated visit to a shitty restaurant with shitty service and sticky menus_ , he thinks. Probably a depressing number.

"What happened?" Sam asks him finally.

Dean musters up the courage to look at him, dreading the look of disappointment he expects to find. Nobody knows how much of a screw-up Dean is more than Sam, and Dean knows he deserves all the bitch-faces his brother can make, especially seeing as how this means Sam might never get to see the dog anymore. But the look on Sam's face is one of concern and compassion, not frustration or anger, and seeing that has Dean feeling both relieved and guilty. _I don't deserve that, Sammy_.

He leans back in the booth as he clears his throat. "I uh, when I went back to his place last Saturday, I ended up on his computer for a minute, and I…accidentally saw a chat thingy he was having with his book editor. It looked like he was talking about writing a book about me, about my life… with the stripping and us being orphans, and… and I just lost it, Sammy," he says, voice hoarse. "I couldn't fucking see straight, I was so pissed. So I cussed him out, told him to go fuck himself, and I left."

He looks up from his fingers playing with a napkin to see the reaction on Sam's face. His brother is staring at him in confusion and disbelief.

"He's writing a book about you? About _us_? Without your permission?"

Dean smiles bitterly and shakes his head. "That's how it read, to me at least. Cas tried saying something to me but I wouldn't even let him get a word out." He turns his head to look out the window, staring at the dumpster in the parking lot and remembering the day they found Zeppy, as well as that night when he'd first gone to Castiel's apartment. They'd acted like fucking teenagers, all shy smiles and sneaky glances. _Damn, I miss that guy_ , he thinks.

"How could he do something like that?" Sam marvels. "He seemed so… _nice_. Weird, but nice."

Dean sits up straighter. "Well, turns out, I got it wrong. Or I should have let Cas explain himself. His editor came to visit me a few days ago, and she explained it. He _is_ writing a book, and she said it's inspired by me, but, uh, it's not really about me. Said if I'd read it without knowing anything beforehand that'd you'd never be able to tell it was inspired by me, I guess. And that he was planning on showing it to me once he was done writing it, and if I didn't give the okay on it, that it'd never get published."

He wants to tell Sam about the other thing, about how all the proceeds from it were to go to him for school, but he can't bring himself to say it. He doesn't want Sam to feel obligated, and he knows it'll make his brother feel guilty for being what he'd consider a burden. And he'd beat the shit out of Sam before he'd let him ever think that. Being Sam's big brother, and everything that means, has been the best thing in his life, and he will never allow Sam to think otherwise.

"Um, wow," Sam replies, whistling under his breath. "So, then Cas isn't a giant bag of dicks after all, huh?"

Dean snorts. "Glad to see those poetry lessons are getting put to good use. But yeah, I kinda fucked it all up." He sighs as he lays his chin on his hand and leans on the table. "Surprise, surprise, right? Leave it to me to turn everything to shit faster than a coked-out racehorse."

When he's met with silence, he glances up to find Sam staring at him, a look of concentration on his face. "What?" Dean asks, defensive.

Sam shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth several times before speaking. "Dean, I've never been able to understand why you have such a low opinion of yourself."

Dean rolls his eyes and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Oh great, it's gonna be one of _those_ talks, is it? Hold on a sec, lemme take my Midol first, Samantha."

Scoffing, Sam leans forward. "I'm serious, Dean. What happened to make you think you're unworthy of being happy? What happened that makes you think you're such a fuckup?"

"Dammit, Sam, really?" Dean parries. "We're really gonna get into this right now?" He pauses to wait for an answer, hoping that Sam will just roll his eyes and say _never mind, what do you think the Royals are gonna do this season_ , but he doesn't. His little brother just sits there, staring across the table at him, lips pressed firmly together, jaw clenched in determination.

Dean expels a breath of air. "Okay." He holds up a finger. "One, I couldn't get Dad straightened out. I couldn't convince him not to drink everyday, and I couldn't get him to start taking care of us." He holds up a second finger. "Two, I was such a spoiled fucking brat that I whined and bitched at him to get him to crawl behind the wheel with us in the car, drunk off his ass, just to take me to get a fucking cheeseburger. And it ended up killing him and almost killing us." He stares at his brother before whispering hoarsely, "That was _my_ fault, Sammy. Dad is dead because of me."

He can feel the tears start welling up in his eyes, so he glances out the window next to him as he continues, raising a third finger. "Three, I was such a fuckup in the system that nobody wanted to have anything to do with me. It's why we couldn't get adopted. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with this older, smartass, stupid brat." He holds up a fourth finger. "Four, I couldn't even get custody of you when I turned eighteen because I was stupid enough to get myself arrested. I've been such a shit brother to you, Sammy. I've ruined everything."

Dean wants to say more, needs to list his job getting dirty as a shitty mechanic, his job dancing and selling himself to anybody willing to pay, all his other stupid, minimum-wage jobs that he struggles to keep every day, but his voice cracks, and he knows he's just one step away from losing his shit right here in this sad little restaurant.

Suddenly he feels like he can't breathe, feels as though the walls are closing in on him, so he gets up and strides towards the exit. Sam calls after him, but Dean ignores his brother, needing desperately to breathe in fresh air, to get away from this conversation. He pushes open the glass door and stumbles out onto the parking lot, blinking at the bright sunshine and taking deep gulps of fresh air. He reaches for his car keys but realizes he must have left them on the table inside. Just as he starts cursing himself, he hears the door open behind him, shoes scuffling along the asphalt as Sam approaches him.

Dean doesn't turn around to look at Sam, just bends down to sit on the curb, swiping away the tears streaking along his cheeks. He closes his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing as he hears Sam sigh behind him. After several beats, he can feel Sam sit down next to him, their shoulders brushing lightly against each other. Dean soaks in the comfort of having his brother next to him, taking strength from the kid's presence.

They sit in silence for several minutes, the only sound around them coming from the birds in the trees across the parking lot and the noises from the cars on the street. Finally, Sam clears his throat to speak.

"You know, in all the years in foster care – hell, in all the years even since mom died – I have people looking at me like I'm some kind of victim. Like they feel sorry for me. You know, _oh, look at the poor, pitiful, lonely orphan, everyone should be glad they don't have as sad a life as he does_. You know that look, right?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah, if I never see another look like that it'll be a moment too soon."

Chuckling, Sam continues. "But I never really understood why people felt so sorry for me. I mean, yeah, it's sad Mom died, and then it was really sad when Dad died… and yeah, it kinda sucks getting stuck with foster families where the houses smell weird, and they cook crappy food, and the beds are lumpy, and it takes forever to get used to different people's routines."

Dean sniffs, wrapping his arms around his knees and laying the side of his head on his knees so he can look up at his brother.

Sam looks down at him, a small smile on his lips. "But even through all of that, I never felt like I was homeless, or like I didn't have a family. And that was because of you. Because you were my family. And whereever you were, _that's_ where my home was. You never let me forget that. And I never once, not ever, felt like I was unloved or unwanted, Dean. And that's a shitload more than a lot of kids with _normal_ families can say."

Dean turns his head to hide his face against his knees, not wanting Sam to see the effect his words are having on him. The little shit always knew how to make him cry like a fucking baby.

"Dean, you've always made me feel like the most important person in the world, and I hope you know you're the most important person in my world, too," Sam goes on. "But dude, we can't be the only people in each other's worlds forever. And we can't place our potential for happiness solely on each other's shoulders."

Sam pauses, and Dean can hear him throwing rocks across the concrete. He wants to tell Sam to shut up, that the words aren't necessary, and go back into the restaurant, wants to pretend everything's okay and nothing's been said, but it's too late. The words are out there, and Dean can't pretend he's not falling apart anymore.

"All those things… they didn't happen because of you, Dean," Sam says softly. "It wasn't your responsibility to make Dad take care of us. He should have wanted to do that on his own. And it wasn't your fault he got behind the wheel when he was drunk off his ass and got himself killed. You were just a kid, Dean. _He_ was the adult, not you. It wasn't your fault, it—"

"Sammy, I'm so sorry, I'm so—"

Dean cuts himself off to lean up, wrap his arms around his brother and hold on as the sobs wrack his body. Sam pulls him in close, fisting his hands into the fabric of Dean's shirt along his back, and rocks them back and forth.

"Dean, this is what I'm saying," he mumbles, face pressed against Dean's shoulder. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You're the reason I've turned out as good as I have. You're the reason I'm as happy and as goofy as I am. You've done _everything_ for me, Dean. You're not a fuckup."

Dean continues to cry on Sam's shoulder, taking deep breaths to try and regain control of himself. He'd feel bad about all the snot on his brother's shirt, but the kid kind of deserves it, saying all this shit to him that he _knows_ will make Dean blubber like baby.

"And you know, I don't think I've ever known anybody who deserves happiness more than you," Sam says. "For somebody who's got a heart as big as yours, you sure do keep it closed off all the time." Sam pulls back to look Dean in the face. "Why does it scare you so much?"

Dean huffs, wiping his nose along the sleeve of his upper arm. "Jeez, Sammy, did you take psych 101 and not tell me?"

"Stop evading the question," Sam retorts.

Rolling his eyes, Dean pulls away. "Dammit, Sam, I don't know." He takes a deep breath and stares at the trees across the lot. "I guess… I just – what if I don't know _how_ to be happy? Or, what if I'm no good at it?"

He pulls the hem of his shirt up to wipe away the tears and snot on his face. "And, what if I hurt him? I don't think I'd ever forgive myself if I hurt him, Sammy. That'd be like… like hurting…" He stops himself as the realization of what he was about to say dawns on him.

He looks up to find Sam watching him closely. "Me? Is that what you were gonna say? It'd be like hurting me?"

Dean stares down at the wet spot on his shirt where he'd been wiping his face. "Yeah. I guess so."

Sam sighs, turning to stare out at the parking lot. "Dude, if you feel that strongly about him, how would you feel if you never saw him again?"

Dean barely hesitates before answering. "Like a part of me was missing."

Sam huffs. "Well, I think that's your answer, whether you were looking for one or not."

They remain quiet for several long minutes, contemplating what's been said. Dean doesn't think he's ever felt this raw and open before, not even when his mom or his dad died. As much as he hates talks like this and fought this one, he knows it needed to happen and that he'll be feeling better about it soon. He'd be feeling even better if they went back inside and actually ate lunch, and Sam's stomach chooses to rumble like a fucking freight train at exactly that moment.

Dean laughs, wiping the rest of his tears away, standing up, and pulling Sam along with him. "Come on, Shaggy. Let's grab us some spaghetti enchiladas."

"Dude, I never said I was going to eat one with you. That sounds disgusting."

"Better than your bean crap that you love so much," Dean chuckles as they head back inside. "Hey, wanna go to that amusement park down the road after? We could shoot some shit at that target range and win Jess a stuffed bunny to prove your love for her."

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing before pushing him forward and sighing. "If you need to shoot fake bullets at fake ducks to prove your manhood, don't let me stand in your way, asswipe."

"Careful, Sammy. I stole Jess's number out of your phone when you went to the bathroom earlier. Don't give me reason to call her, dude."

"You are such a dick."

"Aw, there's my favorite bitch-face of them all. I've missed that one."

"I hope you choke on your spaghetti enchilada."

"I love you too, Sammy."

***************************

Castiel spends the next few days after Pam and Gabriel's visit the same way he spent the few days before. He tries to keep busy with his regular routine, writes, spends hours teaching Zeppy to walk on her hind legs, and constructs an elaborate obstacle course for her in his hall.

There are a few moments when he considers calling Dean, wondering if the man would give him the chance to explain himself. He even goes so far as to pick up the phone on a few occasions, but he can't bring himself to take the final step and tap out Dean's number.

Just a few short months ago, he had been, if not happy, at least content with where he was in life. There was an order to the way he lived, and it made sense to him. There had been times when he became wistful, when he wished he had the courage to step outside his door and participate in the world around him. But the safety of his home, and of that which was known and familiar, was far more necessary to him than anything out of his grasp was.

But the moment Castiel first laid eyes on Dean, he was forever changed. He is no longer satisfied to remain home, living the life he has led for years. Dean makes Castiel want to go out into the world and discover what it has to offer. He makes Castiel want to push past all of his own boundaries and fears, to learn how to become a better man. He makes Castiel want to walk down a crowded street with no fear, to live a life full of spontaneity, and joy, and excitement.

And Castiel wants to live that life with Dean by his side, wants to live it with the man who excites him, exasperates and infuriates him, impassions, inspires, and delights him. He can't imagine living life without Dean now, in fact; just the thought of that leaves him aching and distraught.

On Saturday, one week after Dean stormed out on him, Castiel does his best to distract himself. He wakes early enough in the morning to go for a jog in the park with Zeppy, though it's been a struggle these past few days to step outside his home. He seems to be experiencing a sort of relapse with his agoraphobia again, and he can only assume it's due to the stress of his fight with Dean. But necessity forces him through it, since he can't very well expect the dog to walk herself.

That afternoon he decides to take a break from writing to flop on the couch and watch a few movies with Zeppy snuggled against him. He feels anxious and unsettled, wishing he could work up the nerve to call Dean or, better yet, wishing the phone would ring and it would be Dean calling him instead. Castiel knows better than to hope for something like that, given how furious Dean was when he left, but he still can't help but wish it all the same.

He makes himself a sandwich for supper, and pours Zeppy a bowl of food, standing over the counter and eating his sandwich as he watches the dog munch away at her kibble. As the sun is setting, he takes Zeppy to the park for her nightly walk, and nervously keeps an eye on their surroundings, his grip staying tight on the stun gun in his coat pocket. It's really too warm to be wearing the trenchcoat, but it makes carrying his phone, keys, and stun gun so much easier with the extra pockets.

Once Zeppy has done her business and Castiel has scooped up after her, they scurry back up to the apartment. Castiel cleans in the kitchen and straightens the den, and sits down at his computer to check his email one last time before bed. He decides he probably needs to charge his cell phone, but when he goes to hook it up it's nowhere to be found. He searches through the den, his bedroom, and the kitchen, but it still turns up missing. As an afterthought, he checks the pockets of his trench, where he finds the stun gun.

He knows for a fact that he had his phone the last time he was out walking Zeppy because he remembers checking it for the time. Cursing to himself, Castiel realizes he must have dropped the phone outside at some point. He bites his lips as he considers what to do. The thought of going outside right now, this late and with it this dark, makes his heart race and his stomach churn. But _dammit_ , he's determined to make himself do this. He was just outside barely an hour ago, and it's not as if he has to traverse the entire city. He says as much to the dog, where she sits watching him with her head cocked, as if she can read his mind.

"We didn't go far. Unless someone already picked it up, it shouldn't be too difficult to find." The way his voice goes dry and panicked makes him even more determined, and he grabs his key and hurries to the door before he can talk himself out of it, Zeppy close at his heels. "No, girl, you need to stay. Keep an eye on the place for me, okay?" he tells her, locking the door behind him.

He doesn't even realize until he's halfway across the street that he left his coat with the stun gun in it behind at home. He halts his steps, and considers turning around and going back up for them. But he shakes his head and forges on, given how far he's come already.

It's darker than it looked from the other side of the street, and as Castiel walks briskly into the park and between the first few trees, he reaches for his keys, switching on the tiny penlight he has connected to his keyring. It doesn't make much difference, but he reasons that it'll be enough to reflect off his phone if he should come across it.

After ten minutes that feel more like an eternity, Castiel finally finds the phone at the furthermost point of his earlier walk. With a sigh of relief, he bends to pick it up and slips it into his back pocket. As he makes his way through the trees, he gets a glimpse of his building across the street, and what he sees makes him stop dead in his tracks.

There, leaning against the building, is Dean. He has his head down, and his hand against his head, holding his cell phone to his ear. If he'd been looking up, he would have surely seen Castiel across the street, but instead of walking towards him or calling out to him, Castiel chooses to take a couple steps back into the shade of the trees, just so he can stare and wonder at Dean's presence here for a few moments. "Are you calling me?" he breathes, and he fumbles his phone out of his pocket again, spares a glance down at the black screen. "Are you giving me a second chance?"

He knows, or at least hopes, that this will be a moment that he'll remember for a long time, and his heart skips a beat as he remembers the sound of Dean's voice when he's teasing him, the color of his eyes the exact shade of green that had haunted his dreams for months before he'd ever met Dean.

As Castiel takes a step forward, ready to make his presence known, he notices a shadow out of the corner of his eye. A tall skeleton of a man, wearing a black hoodie, is striding quickly towards Dean. Castiel watches, confused, as the man approaches Dean and seems to start up a conversation, and when Dean raises his head, says something in response, the man pulls his hand out of his pocket and raises a knife to Dean's throat.

Everything for the next several seconds happens as if it's in slow motion, Castiel feeling as if he's watching Dean and this man acting out their parts on a stage, with Castiel himself watching through icy-cold water. Dean struggles as the man pushes him against the brick wall. The man has one hand wrapped around Dean's neck now, pushing up and obviously cutting off his air, while the other hand pushes the tip of the knife's blade against Dean's throat.

Castiel feels his breath leave him as he flashes back to that moment so many years ago, the moment that changed things forever. He remembers the terror he felt, the fear so absolute and encompassing that he can't remember what life felt like without it. He remembers the helplessness he felt as he watched the man point the gun at his mother and pull the trigger, and the agony of feeling her life slip through his fingers as easily and as quickly as the blood seeped through her blouse.

But in a flash, he's back to the here and now, and he experiences everything around him – the breeze through the leaves in the branches above him, the noise of the crickets in the night time air, the scent of the newly-mown grass in his nostrils, and the scene across the street – with a sharpened clarity greater than any figurative lightbulb over his head could produce. He will not let this end like that fateful night so long ago. He can't go back in time to save his mother and the frightened child he used to be, but he _can_ save Dean and the future he represents for Castiel now.

He's still afraid, but instead of allowing that fear to paralyze him, he uses the flood of adrenaline to his advantage. He quickly sneaks along in the shadow of the trees, searching for a darker strip of street to cross, away from any streetlights. Under the cover of darkness, he darts across the pavement, keeping an eye on Dean and the man. At the same time he curses himself for not bringing his stun gun he says a prayer of thanks that he's not wearing his coat, because the billowing of the fabric would surely alert the mugger to his presence.

He sneaks up behind the man, careful to stay behind his line of sight. As he gets closer, he can hear the man cursing gutturally at Dean, sees Dean just barely glance at him as he skulks up behind them both, and Castiel winces, hoping the man didn't notice.

He takes a few seconds to judge the situation, not sure of how to get the man away from Dean without the blade cutting Dean's throat. But before he can make a decision, the man seems to grow tired of Dean's struggling and he grunts out another expletive, tenses his right shoulder in a way that indicates action. Castiel jumps before he can even think, grabbing the man by the upper arm and twisting him around. He punches him with a right hook, then knees him in the groin. As the man is bent over, moaning in pain, Castiel uses all of his strength to hit him again, and he grimaces as he feels the skin across his knuckles split against the mugger's cheekbone.

The last punch he throws is an uppercut that splays the mugger out on the sidewalk, curled into a ball as he continues to groan from the injury to his groin. Castiel clutches his bleeding hand as he steps around the prone man to Dean, who is leaning against the wall, bent over and rubbing his neck.

"Dean," he croaks. "Are you alright?" Castiel places a hand along Dean's back and bends down, trying his best to get a look at Dean's face.

"Jesus, Cas! Where the hell did you learn to throw a mean hook like that?" Dean rasps, voice barely above a whisper.

Castiel frowns as he notices blood staining Dean's hand. "I… I watch a lot of movies," he responds, and then, "You're bleeding," he points out.

"Yeah, well, that kinda happens when some asshole tries to slit your throat open," Dean croaks, coughing.

Castiel wants to say more, ask why Dean was here in the first place, but he can hear sirens blaring in the distance, getting closer by the second. _Someone must have seen what was happening, called it in_ , he thinks, but before he can get the words out, a police car pulls around the corner and squeals to a stop at the curb.

The questions and explanations will take hours, Castiel knows. He starts desperately, "Dean, why were you—"

"We'll talk," Dean whispers. His face is white, his eyes huge. He's reeling on his feet, in shock, Castiel realizes.

He reaches out and threads his hands under Dean's arms as Dean's knees buckle, supports him as he slumps down on to his ass. And still Dean gazes at Castiel like Castiel is an avenging angel, and he smiles weakly and says it again, firmer this time.

"We'll talk. I want to."

It'll have to do for now.

***************************

Dean never considered himself to be the damsel-in-distress type before, but he guesses there's a first time for everything. He thought he'd bought it when that asshole pulled that knife on him, sharp tip of the blade digging into his skin. So when he saw Castiel sneaking up behind the dude, his first reaction was relief, but almost simultaneously he felt an overwhelming sense of panic. If Cas got hurt or worse because of him, he'd never forgive himself. It'd be just one more person that Dean hurt just by being a part of his life.

And of course that was when Cas proceeded to beat the holy shit out of the guy. Dean chuckles to himself as he sits on Cas's bathroom counter, legs swinging as he waits for Muhammed Ali to find the antiseptic he'd misplaced. He knew the nerdy dude was built because he was sneaky enough to check him out whenever Cas took that stupid trench coat off, but still. Cas knowing how to fight and how to fight _dirty_ has Dean imagining all kinds of things they could get up to in the sack, and he really needs to start thinking of something else before his dick decides to make its presence known.

Castiel finally returns to the bathroom, brow furrowed in concern. "Take your shirt off."

Dean can feel his eyes go wide. "Uh, shouldn't we, you know… talk first?"

Castiel gives him a bitch-face that he must have learned from Sam at some point. "There's blood on it. Please. Take it off. I don't want to see it."

Castiel's voice is faint, and Dean notices for the first time that the other man looks pale and drawn. And _fuck_ , he remembers what Castiel told him, what happened all those years ago. He does as he's told, pulling the shirt up and over his head. He throws it on the floor, in the corner of the bathroom, and when he brings his eyes back to Castiel, the other man's eyes are closed and he's blowing out long exhales.

"It's alright, Cas," Dean says softly. "I'm alright. Because of you."

Castiel opens his eyes, gazes at Dean for a long moment, his face serious. "Why are you here, Dean?" he asks finally.

Dean can feel the butterflies in his stomach start fluttering up a storm. _This is good, though_ , he thinks. _We need to get this part out of the way_. Castiel needs to know that he knows everything now, needs to know how sorry he is. Dean's afternoon with Sam did more than dredge up all his old wounds. It made him realize he doesn't want to live without Castiel anymore. That he's ready to start this next chapter of his life, no matter how scary as fuck it is.

He takes a deep breath. "I talked to Pam," he says.

Castiel's eyes go wide, a mirror of Dean's expression just moments before. "What?"

Dean shrugs. "Actually it was more _her_ talking to _me_. She's kind of bossy."

Castiel's face twists in confusion. "Dean, I don't understand. Why… when did you talk to her?"

"She came to see me a few nights ago at the club," Dean replies. "You know, she really cares about you. That's a good friend you got there, Cas."

He watches as Castiel squeezes his eyes shut again and shakes his head. "What did she say to you?"

Dean stares down at his hands, fingers laced together as they hang between his thighs. "She told me the truth about the book," he says quietly.

Castiel _tsks_ , staring down at the floor. "She shouldn't have done that. You should have heard it from me first."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, well, I would have, except I was an asshole who wouldn't let you speak before I stormed out of here."

Castiel shakes his head once more before lifting it and meeting Dean's eyes. "I don't blame you. I was a fool. I should have told you about the book before I even started writing it."

Dean throws up his hands. "Yeah, well, I was an asshole for not even giving you the chance to explain it before jumping to conclusions and slamming the door in your face. I don't know if you've noticed this about me or not, but I kinda have trust issues."

Castiel's lips quirk as he blinks slowly at Dean. "As do I." He looks down at Dean's hands and takes a step forward. "We are a pair, aren't we?"

Chuckling, Dean says, "Yeah, we are. Guess maybe it means we're better off with each other, instead of forcing anybody else to have to deal with us."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Oh, how very romantic," he says sarcastically.

"You know what I mean, jerk," Dean mutters, as he reaches for Castiel's hand. He runs the pad of his thumb softly over Cas's knuckles, flinching at the broken skin where Cas had punched the mugger.

Cas inches forward, stepping between Dean's thighs as he pulls his hand closer. "That maybe we were supposed to find each other?"

And that's… Dean doesn't really believe in all that destiny shit. But he's had this feeling, almost since the first moment he laid eyes on Cas, that this was _supposed_ to happen. And it kinda creeps him out at the same time it excites him to know that Cas has felt the same. "Yeah," he replies, breathlessly.

Castiel's eyes are half-lidded as he takes another step closer, and Dean has to widen the V of his legs to accommodate him.

"Dean, I…" Castiel pauses, eyes flicking to Dean's throat before continuing. "I need to clean up that cut."

Dean expels a breath and bites back a curse. He's pretty sure he must have the world's worst case of blue balls in the history of _ever_ , especially after the makeout session from a week ago was so abruptly ended, thanks to his freakout.

Castiel leans over Dean's leg without pulling away to turn on the faucet, running warm water over a washcloth. Dean watches as he rubs a little soap over the cloth, then hisses as Castiel dabs lightly over the cut with it.

"Sorry," Castiel murmurs, face apologetic as he continues to rub the soapy cloth over the cut. Dean stares up at the ceiling and grits his teeth, determined not to seem more like a wuss than he already does. Once Castiel is satisfied it's clean enough, he pokes a Q-tip soaked in peroxide over the wound, and Dean huffs at the sensation.

"It tickles," he says, and Castiel smiles.

"You were making it tickle on purpose, weren't you?" Dean asks, mock-offended.

Castiel's smile gets wider, and Dean can feel his heart melt a little bit because it's all gummy, and Cas's nose crinkles up in what must be the most adorable way he's ever seen.

"I've heard that distracting small children by tickling them makes them not notice when a wound is being treated," Castiel replies.

"Hey! So you're saying I'm acting like a wussy little baby, is that it?" Dean protests.

"Well, if the Sesame Street bandaid fits…" Castiel lets his words trail off.

Dean rolls his eyes and looks down at Castiel's hand. "Yeah, well we'll see how tough you are when I start fixing up your hand."

He reaches forward and grabs the hand, opening Castiel's fist to spread out his fingers. He feels a pang of sympathy when he hears Cas hiss in pain. He's had his fair share of bloody knuckles, so he knows how painful it can be. He rubs small, soothing circles on Castiel's palm as they both stare down at the wound, and the question on Dean's mind bubbles to the surface before Dean can stop the words from leaving his mouth.

"Cas, how did you get up the nerve to save me like that? Weren't you scared?" he whispers.

He watches as Castiel goes still, his eyes staring at the counter next to Dean. He's starting to think Cas won't answer him after many seconds are met with silence, but just as he's about to pull his hand away, Castiel opens his mouth to speak.

"I was terrified," he whispers hoarsely. "I… when I first saw what was happening, I froze. I couldn't move. I – I kept picturing that night with my mother, remembering what happened. Then I saw the man press the knife closer, and… and I knew I had to move, I had to do _something_. I couldn't stand there and watch another person I love get hurt."

Dean doesn't move or say anything in response. Hearing Castiel say that he loves him makes him feel as if he's been pushed off this cliff they've been tiptoeing around for weeks. He's suspected that Cas feels this way, of course. How could he not, given what he's been planning to do for Dean and for his brother? But he never allowed himself to actually hope for it, because then he'd be setting himself up for disappointment if Cas didn't feel the same as him.

And he does love Cas, he's known it in the back of his mind for a while now. His talk with Sam this afternoon is what made him actually admit it to himself. But admitting it to himself and saying the words out loud to Cas are two very different things, and even though Cas said it first, Dean still can't bring himself to spit the words out. Not yet, not without vomiting all over himself and Cas, from fear and nerves.

Dean watches Castiel's gaze move along his skin before finding the wound on his neck.

"It doesn't look as deep now that I've cleaned it up," Castiel murmurs. He lifts a hand to reach out and touch Dean's neck, but hesitates, hand suspended in midair. His eyes dart to meet Dean's. "I'm still not used to being able to touch you now," he says.

Dean smiles. "You're allowed to touch me whenever and wherever you want, from now on."

Castiel keeps his eyes on Dean's as he leans forward slowly, placing a hand on the counter on either side of Dean's hips. "Oh, I plan on it," he whispers.

Dean hisses as he feels Cas's lips ghost across the wound on his neck. He closes his eyes and reaches forward, curling his fingers through the belt loops of Cas's jeans and tugging him closer. At the first touch of Cas's tongue along his neck, Dean fucking whimpers, and he'd be embarrassed at showing his need so quickly and easily if he wasn't needing it just so goddamn _much_.

Castiel lets go of the counter to slide his fingers along the skin of Dean's back, and Dean can feel gooseflesh popping up all over his body. He tightens his thighs around Cas's waist, pulling him in even closer, not even ashamed of the growing bulge in his jeans. He wants Cas to know how much he wants this, how hard he is for him. He wraps his arms around Cas's shoulders, and grunts in frustration at Cas still wearing his shirt. He needs to feel skin on skin right the fuck _now_.

"Take that fucking shirt off, Cas," he mutters.

Castiel pulls away from licking Dean's clavicle long enough to pull the shirt over his head, then leans back in quickly, but before he can make contact, Dean places his hands on Cas's shoulders, freezing him in place. He can't stop staring at Cas, the way his lips are pink and even plumper than normal, his cheeks flushed, his eyelids heavy but doing nothing to mask the desire evident in his eyes. His hair is mussed and sticking out in every direction, and Dean can't resist reaching up to run his fingers through it before getting a good grip and tugging Cas flush against his own body.

He tightens his legs around the man, thrusting his erection against Cas's stomach as he looks into his eyes, their lips mere inches apart now. "God, I have needed you for so fucking long, Cas," he whispers.

Castiel blinks slowly, tongue peeking out to wet his lips. "You've got me now, for as long as you'll have me," he murmurs. He closes the distance between them, runs his tongue along the seam of Dean's lips, teasing, and Dean opens his mouth with a moan.

Dean's grip in Cas's hair tightens as their tongues meet and slide together, wet and hot and perfect, Dean loving the taste of Cas's mouth and wondering if the rest of him will taste the same. He sucks at Cas's tongue before pulling back to bite at his upper lip, something he's wanted to do since the first time he gave Cas a lap dance. Cas fucking _growls_ at that, and begins sucking and biting along Dean's jaw.

Dean can feel his eyes roll back in his head as Castiel works his way down his throat and to his chest, alternating between licking, and biting, and sucking. When he pulls a nipple between those sinful lips, Dean bucks his hips and cries out, garnering a chuckle from Cas.

"Sensitive nipples, hmm?" Cas teases, as he licks a path over to Dean's other nipple.

Dean mutters between groans, "Oh, you have no fucking idea, dude… oh, sweet _fucking_ Lord …"

He gasps when Castiel rolls the hard bud between teeth and clamps his lips around it, looks down to find Cas staring up at him as he suckles. Moaning like the porn star he always suspected he was meant to be, Dean says, voice stuttering, "I suggest you m-m-move along, unless you want me t-to come just from this, okay?"

Castiel smirks around the nipple, but he does as Dean suggests and begins to lick a path down Dean's chest to his stomach. He stops for a moment to swirl the tip of his tongue around Dean's navel, and as he does so Dean can feel fingers sliding along his thigh, to the waistband of his jeans.

As the fingers curl and uncurl around the top of his jeans, Dean notices that Castiel's hands are shaking. He reaches up to cradle Cas's face and leans forward, whispering against Cas's quick breaths. "Hey…hey, you're okay, right? Is this… is it too much?"

Dean can't believe the words as they're leaving his mouth, because if Cas actually says, _yes, it's too much, we need to stop_ , he wouldn't be surprised if his balls exploded from sheer frustration. He knows he will stop it, and do what he can to make Cas feel better and give him what he needs, but _damn_ , he really hopes that doesn't have to happen.

Castiel huffs against his mouth, breath sweet and hot. "It _is_ too much… but not enough, at the same time, if that makes sense."

Dean laughs, a deep, throaty laugh that pushes him into Cas, and he takes a moment to suck on Cas's tongue again before answering. "I think anything that ends up with us both naked makes perfect sense to me."

Castiel laughs silently against his skin. "Speaking of which, why don't you take these pants off, since I can't seem to get my fingers to work," he suggests, voice shaky.

And that's something Dean doesn't need to hear twice, at least not at a moment like this. He reaches for the button of his jeans, fingers flicking it open and fumbling at his zipper. It takes him three tries to get a grip on the tab, because he catches the look on Cas's face and it makes his mouth go dry and his nerves shoot through the roof, because the dude is fucking _focused_ on his groin, eyes and mouth set with a determined and hungry expression. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think Cas hadn't eaten in months and was staring at a juicy cheeseburger or something, and that thought both concerns him when he imagines Cas eating a faceful of his dick, and excites the hell out of him, because _yeah_ , Cas is just that hungry for him, nervous or not.

His stupid fingers finally pull the stupid zipper down, and then he hooks them under the waistband to try to pull his jeans down his thighs. It's a clumsy effort, mostly because of the awkward position and because Dean is so hard it hurts and he can't concentrate on anything else right now. Castiel lets loose an exasperated breath before grabbing Dean's jeans and yanking the pants down and off his legs himself, which is a fairly impressive feat, considering Dean is still wearing his sneakers. But Cas gets rid of those quickly as well, pulling them and Dean's socks off and throwing them to one corner of the bathroom, leaving Dean wearing only his boxer briefs.

Slow hands glide up Dean's thighs and reach for the waistband of his underwear, and Dean lifts himself up so that Cas can roll them off. As he does so, he leans forward, nuzzling his nose against Cas's neck and behind his ear. He pulls an earlobe into his mouth, mouthing at the flesh as Cas pulls his boxers down past his knees. Dean's cock is rock-hard, and thwacks against his stomach as it's freed from the constraints of his underwear, and he can't help but whimper at the feel of the warm air between them caressing his dick.

Castiel groans as Dean sucks and nibbles on his earlobe before he pulls away to begin licking along Dean's chest again, and Dean can feel his breath quicken in anticipation. He realizes that he's buck-naked here, while Castiel is still wearing his jeans, but before he can form a protest he feels a tongue along the slit of his dick and all coherent thought promptly leaves his brain.

"Oh God, Cas, you're gonna kill me tonight, aren't you?" he stutters, as Cas moves his tongue to the juncture of thigh and hip, ignoring his swollen shaft.

Cas chuckles against Dean's hip, and looks up at him between eyelashes. "Killing you would negate all the plans I have," he says, biting at the tender skin of Dean's inner thigh. Dean chews his lip, struggling to keep from fisting Cas's hair and pulling that delicious mouth back over to his dick.

"Would you like to know what's first on my list of things I want to do to you, Dean?" Cas asks, tongue licking circles around Dean's hipbone. "The first thing I want to do is suck your cock and drink you in as you come down my throat."

"Oh holy Jesus Christ, Cas, I—"

"What's the first thing you want me to do, Dean? I want to hear you say it," Castiel demands, and for someone with shaky hands who's claiming to be nervous, he sure does seem to be bossy.

Dean bites down on his lip, hesitant to voice what he wants because he's never really been one for dirty talk and, stripper job notwithstanding, he's always been a vanilla type of guy. But something about Castiel must just bring out the nasty in him, because next thing he knows he's begging, "I want you to put that fucking mouth on me and suck my cock, Cas, please…"

And he can't help himself anymore, he has to thread his fingers through Castiel's hair, has to urge those lips back around him before he busts a ball from the absolute _need_ to fuck that mouth.

Suddenly, blessedly, his dick is encased in the wet, velvety vacuum, and it is, by far, the best thing Dean has ever felt. He half-heartedly goes to pull his hands out of Cas's hair, but jumps when he feels Cas's hands clench on his own, not letting him pull them away. When he looks down, Cas is staring up at him as his tongue teases down his shaft.

"Don't let go," Castiel whispers, before taking Dean back into his mouth. He inches his way slowly down Dean's cock, taking him in almost to the base before stopping. He swallows, squeezing the head with the constriction of his throat, and then he sucks so hard his cheeks go hollow and Dean wonders if he practiced by sucking a watermelon through a straw. Dean slings his head back, hitting it against the mirror behind him and probably giving himself a concussion, but he doesn't even give a shit because Cas is swallowing him down like there's no tomorrow or even no next five minutes.

Castiel keeps sucking as he pulls back up Dean's shaft, and uses one hand to fondle Dean's balls while the other hand begins to fist Dean's cock. He looks back up at Dean as he starts to lick and suckle the crown of Dean's dick, eyes fluttering shut every few seconds as he moans filthily at the slit, acting for all the world as if he's sucking on the tastiest popsicle he's ever had.

Dean licks and bites on his lower lip as he watches his dick slide between Cas's lips, and as Cas squeezes the shaft, Dean's hips buck involuntarily, causing Cas to take him in farther. Cas's eyes go wide, and Dean is about to apologize when he pulls his mouth off his dick with an audible pop.

"Dean, get down," Cas says, panting, eyes wide.

Dean wonders if Cas is pissed, not being able to decipher what he's thinking by the tone of his voice. He jumps down off the counter, his dick bobbing at the movement, as he watches Cas kneel down in front of him.

Cas reaches up to grab Dean's hands, placing them back along his head and into his hair. He looks up at Dean and licks his lips as he whispers, "Fuck my mouth."

As Cas takes the head of his dick between his lips, Dean tries to remember if he sold his soul to the devil anytime recently, because he has no fucking idea what he must have done to deserve someone as hot as this. But he decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, as he tightens his grip on Castiel's hair and begins to thrust.

He moves slowly at first, shallow incursions that have his cock just barely moving in the channel of Castiel's mouth. But when Cas grunts and slides his hands up the back of Dean's thighs, squeezing the globes of Dean's ass and pulling him deeper into his mouth, Dean gets the point. He moves deeper and faster, staring down, mesmerized, as he watches his cock disappear between those full lips. It's messy and wet, as Castiel's saliva mixes with Dean's precome, slicking up his lips and drooling down his chin. But Castiel doesn't seem to care; in fact, he moans around Dean's dick, eyes closing shut as he squeezes Dean's ass, finger sliding up and down the crease.

Between the vibrations from Castiel moaning and him squeezing and teasing his ass, Dean can feel his balls tightening up. He looks down at Cas, opens his mouth to warn him he's about to come, but the look Cas gives him tells him Cas already knows. One last thrust into Cas's tight mouth, the head of his cock bouncing off the back of Cas's throat, has Dean exploding, fingers gripping Cas's head tightly and holding him in place as he spills himself down his throat.

Castiel stares up at him as he drinks him down, swallowing and sucking everything Dean gives him. Dean leans back against the counter as his dick continues to pulse in Cas's mouth, and he strokes Cas's hair gently, watching Cas continue to suck and lick. Once Cas realizes there's nothing left to milk, he pulls off, kneeling back on his heels and smiling up at Dean as he wipes his mouth.

"You are one dedicated sonofabitch, you know that?" Dean says fondly. He pulls Castiel up to stand against him, and wraps his arms around the man's waist. As Cas leans in to kiss him, Dean can feel his cock is stiff, and straining against his jeans. Dean sucks on his tongue, tasting the salt-tang of his own jizz before pulling away and resting his forehead against Castiel's.

"Cas, I want you to fuck me," he whispers, voice raspy.

Castiel groans, rubbing his erection against Dean's hip. "Are you sure?"

Dean chuckles, kissing his way down Castiel's throat. "I think I've wanted to feel you inside me from the first moment I saw you, so yeah, I'm pretty fucking sure."

He feels Castiel shudder, his body hard and tight as he wraps his arms around Dean. "Let's go to the bedroom," he murmurs, entwining his fingers with Dean's own and leading him out of the bathroom.

Once in the bedroom, Dean sits on the edge of the bed and watches as Castiel strips off the rest of his clothes. When he's down to his boxers, Dean holds out a hand, urging Castiel closer so that he can remove them himself. As it's released from the confines of his underwear, Castiel's cock bounces against his stomach, hard and already leaking a droplet of precome. Dean leans forward to swirl his tongue along the crown, mouth watering at the taste of Cas, impossibly even better than the taste of his tongue.

Castiel stares down at him, eyes wide and lips parted, as Dean opens his mouth and takes him in. As he begins to suck in earnest, Cas grunts and pulls away.

"I thought you wanted me to fuck you," he chides.

Dean smirks. "I do, but I couldn't resist a taste when it's right there in front of me, looking all juicy and tasty like that."

Castiel bites his lip, wrapping a hand around his cock and pumping it lazily. "I guess you'll just have to taste your fill some other time, then," he says.

Dean leans forward to swipe his tongue one last time around the slit, and before Castiel pulls away, he rubs the head of his dick along the side of Dean's mouth and along his cheek. Dean can feel the wetness from his spit and Castiel's precome marking his face, and the possessive look in Cas's eyes makes Dean's own soft dick twitch in interest. _Damn_ , Dean thinks happily. _Cas is one kinky bastard_.

Cas raises a hand and places it on Dean's shoulder, pushing him back onto the bed. "Roll over onto your stomach," he says, huskily.

Dean crawls onto the bed, tucking his knees underneath him and sticking his ass up into the air. He's never done this before; all his times with other dudes consisted mostly of just blowjobs, handjobs and dry humping, so, to say he's nervous about it is an understatement. But he wants it, he knows he does, and he takes several deep breaths, trying to prepare and relax himself as best he can.

He doesn't expect to feel gentle hands rubbing along his spine, or soft kisses teasing along the dip between his buttocks and lower back. And when those hands spread open his cheeks, he sure as hell doesn't expect to feel a kiss against his hole. He sucks in a breath at the feel of warm lips teasing his ass, and when a hot, wet tongue probes his rim, he gasps and cries out in astonishment.

"Ssshhh, just relax and enjoy this, Dean," Castiel whispers against his ass cheek, and the second time Cas's tongue licks a path into his hole, Dean goes with it, squeezing his eyes shut and grunting incoherent words.

He pretty much loses all sense of reality after that, as Castiel's tongue fucks his ass, licking and sucking him open, leaving him raw, and vulnerable, and needy in ways he's never even fathomed before. He pushes his ass back against Castiel every time Cas's tongue pulls away, crying out and pleading for Cas not to stop, begging for it like a fucking cat in heat.

When Dean feels a finger slide in along with Castiel's tongue, he loses the ability to speak. He mouths and bites at the blanket underneath him, clenching the sheets between his fists in a vain attempt to hang on for dear life. There's a moment of emptiness then, and Dean hears a noise, looks over his shoulder to see Castiel opening a bottle of lube, slicking up his fingers, his own eyes stark with what looks like amazement and sheer joy. Dean can't even look at that much naked emotion, and he buries his face back in the bed as two fingers press in, followed by a third, and before Dean knows it, he's getting finger fucked fast and hard. On every third swipe, Cas's fingers curl and just barely touch Dean's prostate, and all Dean can think about is just how amazing it's going to feel when Cas's cock is ramming into him.

Then, suddenly, he's empty again, Cas having pulled away, and fuck if Dean doesn't whimper, embarrassing the shit out of himself. But he can hear a condom wrapper being ripped, and he turns his head to watch Cas over his shoulder, almost drooling at what he sees. _Goddamn_ , Cas is hot. His shoulders are broad, with muscles rippling and corded along his neck and arms. He doesn't have a six-pack, but his stomach is lean and taut, all the same. The dude's got hipbones that make Dean want to tattoo a mark there that says, "Property of Dean," and he makes a mental note to spend a lot of time on them tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and then pretty much every day for the foreseeable future.

But the star of the show right now is Castiel's cock. It's not as thick as Dean's but it's long, so long that Dean wonders if it'll punch right through his prostate as Cas is fucking him, and his mouth begins to water at the realization that he's about to find out. The shaft curves just a bit to the left, and the head is red and swollen and gorgeous. Dean licks his lips and almost reconsiders, almost begs Cas to let him suck him dry instead. But as Cas begins to roll the rubber onto his dick with shaky hands, Dean knows there's nothing in the world he wants more right now than to feel Cas inside him.

Cas looks up and meets Dean's gaze once the condom is rolled all the way on. Dean sees a flicker of panic in his eyes before Cas scoots forward on his knees.

"Roll over onto your back," Cas says, voice quiet and strained.

Dean rolls over and spreads his legs wide to accommodate Cas. He reaches a hand forward, grabs onto Cas's bicep and pulls him down and on top of him. Cas places an arm on either side of Dean's head, threading fingers through Dean's hair as he leans down and places a kiss on his lips. Dean closes his eyes and opens his mouth, licking along Cas's lips until they part. They kiss slowly, tongues twisting lazily along each other until Cas shifts and his dick slides against the crease of Dean's ass. Dean moans, and the kiss quickly deepens, Cas's grip in Dean's hair tightening as he begins to fuck Dean's mouth with his tongue.

"Cas," Dean murmurs. "I need you inside me… don't make me beg for it, dude."

Castiel moans, pulling back to kiss along Dean's jaw. "I don't know how long I'm going to last, Dean. I've wanted this for so long—"

"I don't care how long you last, just… show me, show me how much you've wanted this, give it to me, Cas…"

Dean whimpers as Castiel pulls away, but shuts up when he realizes Cas is just reaching for the lube. He closes his eyes as he listens to the obscene, wet-slick sounds of Cas rubbing lube along his dick, and then Castiel is breathing words across Dean's lips.

"Look at me, Dean," he whispers, before placing a chaste kiss on Dean's lips. "I want to see you when I do this. I want you to see me."

Dean nods wordlessly, fixes his eyes to piercing blue as Castiel runs his hands along the back of Dean's thighs, pulling Dean's legs up and onto his shoulders. Dean holds his breath, then forces himself to let it go as it occurs to him that it's probably not such a good idea to be this tense when someone's trying to stick their dick in you. His breath hitches when he feels the hard, blunt head of Cas's cock against his entrance, and again he forces himself to regulate his breathing as he feels Cas breach his rim.

The pain at first is almost too much, even if Cas worked him open with his fingers. Dean grits his teeth against the burning sensation as Cas inches forward ever so slowly, but he doesn't take his eyes off Cas, and he sees it all in Cas's gaze, surprise, happiness, pleasure, a wash of emotions that mesmerize Dean, makes it worth any discomfort he's feeling as Cas spreads him open.

It's eked out and careful, and once Castiel is fully sheathed inside Dean he stops to stare down, panting as he looks on in wonder. Dean can feel the ache start to lessen, can begin to see how this over-full feeling might start eventually feeling more good than bad, as he stares back up at Cas. He can't help but smirk as he asks, "How's it feeling for you, Cas?"

How anyone can blush when they're balls-deep in some guy's ass is a question for the ages, but Castiel manages to do it. He smiles down at Dean as he answers, "I feel like your heat and tightness are going to burn me alive or make me explode, but I don't ever want it to stop."

Dean experimentally clenches his ass, and is rewarded with a fucking delicious moan from Cas. "Well, I heard a rumor that it's even better if we, you know, start _moving_ ," he jokes.

Cas stares at him for a second longer before pulling back and nudging in again, as slowly as before, inch by excruciating inch, his eyes closing and a gasp punching out of him as he eases forward. Dean instinctively rocks up to meet him, running his hands down Castiel's back to his butt and pulling him in as deep as he can, as Castiel dips down to bury his face in Dean's neck.

"Dean," Castiel whispers against Dean's skin, his breath misting hot there, and Dean feels an overwhelming surge of tenderness that has him cant his head and press his lips to Castiel's temple.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know."

Castiel groans, low and harsh, pulls his ass up and out again, thrusts his hips back in so hard this time that Dean is convinced his balls left a bruise as they slapped against his ass. The sensation as his ass fits itself around Cas as he drives in makes Dean abruptly dizzy with lust, and he squeezes his eyes shut and throws his head back. "Fuck yeah, just like that, Cas," he groans.

Castiel needs no more encouragement, he begins to pump Dean's ass hard and fast, rolling his hips each time he's deep, rubbing Dean's prostate and pulling curses and moans from Dean. The only thing better than Cas's dick ramming his prostate is watching the expressions and hearing the sounds Cas is making. Dean never would have expected Cas to be this forceful and this wild, but now he's finding his rhythm he's giving Dean the ass-reaming of his life. It's a good thing Dean doesn't plan to have sex with anybody else anytime soon or _ever_ , because Cas is pretty much ruining him for anybody else at this point.

And even though Dean emptied himself down Castiel's throat not too long ago, he can feel his own dick already start swelling with need again. He raises an arm above his head to grab onto the headboard as he lowers his other hand to grab onto his dick, stripping himself fast to keep up with Cas. The sounds of Cas's dick sliding in and out of his hole and Cas's balls slapping against his ass are so pornographic and hot that they bring Dean really close embarrassingly fast to coming again. He only hopes he can last longer than Cas, given he's already shot his wad once tonight.

When he feels Cas pause in fucking him, he opens his eyes to find Cas staring down at his hand, pumping his cock. Cas bats away his hand and wraps his own long fingers around Dean's shaft, resuming his thrusts and stripping Dean's dick at the same time. Dean would find it unfair that the dude can synchronize and do both so well at the same time if he weren't the one who was benefiting from it.

Suddenly, Castiel's thrusts become erratic and stuttered, and Dean makes an effort to keep his eyes open so he can watch Cas lose it. The body above him goes stiff, and Cas sinks himself in hard and deep one last time before crying out. The sensation of the head of Cas's rigid cock butting against his prostate sends Dean over the edge as well, and he feels his ass clench down on Cas's shaft, milking him as his own come spurts across his stomach and chest. Cas continues to fist Dean's cock, working him through his orgasm as his own climax rakes through his body.

Dean slides his hands back up to Cas's shoulders and neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Their tongues caress each other sleepily, and Dean cradles Cas's head between his hands before letting Cas pull away so that he can slide his softening dick out of Dean's ass and remove the condom. Dean starts looking around the room for tissues or a shirt or something he can wipe his spunk off with, and snorts when Castiel throws some Kleenex his way.

"So, uh, what are you doing with a nightstand full of rubbers and lube anyway?" Dean asks, teasing.

Cas smirks as he pulls a corner of the bedspread up and motions for Dean to scoot over so he can crawl under the covers. "I was feeling very optimistic before our date last weekend," he admits, pulling the covers up and over them.

Dean barks out a laugh. "I hope you were optimistic enough to get the economy sizes," he replies, pulling Castiel against his chest and wrapping his arms around him. "This is okay, right?" he asks, suddenly not sure if Cas meant for him to stay the night.

Castiel raises his head to look at Dean, confused. "Is what okay?"

Dean vaguely motions to them lying in bed. "This… me staying here, spending the night? Is this what you want?"

Castiel stares at Dean very seriously before leaning forward and placing a kiss on his lips. "Yes. This is what I want. Indefinitely."

Dean smiles to himself, staring up at the ceiling. "I can work with that."

He listens to Castiel's breathing become slower and more regular as he starts to fall asleep. He continues to stare up at the ceiling, trying to go to sleep himself but not having much luck. It's been a long time since he's tried to sleep in someone else's bed, especially with that someone else curled up against him. At one point, Castiel mumbles something incoherent in his sleep, and rolls over onto his side, his back to Dean. Dean smiles as he stares at the man's bedhead fondly, and rolls over onto his side, sliding up behind Castiel and wrapping an arm around his waist.

He nuzzles his nose behind Castiel's ear and kisses along the nape of his neck before whispering against his soft skin, "Love you, too."

***************************

The following morning, Castiel wakes to an empty bed and a room full of sunshine. He blinks around blearily, looking for signs of Dean's whereabouts but not finding a clue of it until he hears dishes clattering in the kitchen. He pulls on pajama bottoms and stumbles down the hall and into the kitchen, where he finds Dean standing in front of the open fridge, his back to Castiel. There's a pan of bacon frying on the stove, and a mixing bowl of what looks to be egg yolks on the counter. Zeppy is standing at Dean's feet with her tail wagging, looking up at Dean as if he is a god and she his faithful servant, waiting for scraps.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas rasps, his throat apparently sore from last night.

Dean jumps and turns around quickly, smiling brightly at Castiel. "Good morning, angelcakes!"

They stare at each other across the counter awkwardly, Castiel not quite sure how to respond.

"Okay, yeah, 'angelcakes' is a big no—"

"I would say so, yes—"

"—Just thought I'd test it out and see how it sounded," Dean continues, smiling bashfully. "So, uh – you hungry? 'Cause I am _starving_ , since somebody kinda wrung me dry last night, if you know what I mean."

Dean winks lewdly, and Castiel finds that he suddenly can't believe Dean is here. He smiles purely by reflex, feels his face turning pink. "Yes, I think I am quite hungry, as well. Do you need any help?"

Dean shrugs and shakes his head. "Nah, I got it all taken care of. You've got a pretty well-stocked kitchen, man. I'm impressed."

"Yes, well, given how I don't like to go out shopping, it serves me well to stay organized and plan ahead," Castiel replies.

"Okay, so, I took a shower when I first woke up, and I'm pretty sure I left enough hot water if you wanna take one, too. I can finish up stuff here and have it all ready when you get out, if you want," Dean says, whisking eggs in a bowl.

"That sounds wonderful, Dean. Thank you," Castiel responds, turning to walk back down the hall and towards the bathroom. Before he can take more than three steps though, he feels arms wrap around his waist and pull him back, and Dean leans down and kisses the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

"Don't take too long," Dean murmurs against Castiel's skin, hand sliding down and under the fabric of his pajamas to wrap around his cock.

Castiel throws his head back and lays it against Dean's shoulder, turning his head to give him better access to his neck. "If you keep this up I'll never even leave," he scolds half-heartedly.

Dean chuckles as he releases him and splays a hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward gently. "Point taken. Go on, go get cleaned up for the food orgy," he teases.

Castiel laughs as he walks down the hall.

***************************

Half an hour later, Castiel is clean and sitting at the kitchen table, hair still wet and making the hem around his neckline damp. Dean busies himself in the kitchen, pouring mugs of coffee, adding food to plates, and buttering toast. What he brings to the table is enough to feed a small army, Castiel is convinced. Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, pancakes, and toast spill off their plates, and Dean drowns everything on his plate in maple syrup.

"You want some syrup, too?" he asks, offering the bottle to Castiel.

Castiel shakes his head. "No, I just keep it here for when my brother visits, actually. And I think you're consuming enough for the both of us."

Dean snorts and begins to dig into his food. Castiel takes a bite of the hash browns and eggs, and he has to admit Dean is a pretty good cook. He pauses between bites to take a look around the table and the kitchen counter.

"Where's the fruit?" he asks.

Dean's brows knit together in confusion. "What fruit?"

"The fruit in the fridge. I've got strawberries, pineapple, melon… they'd all taste wonderful with what we've got here."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You're kidding me, right? You don't eat fruit with a meal like this. It'd ruin it."

Castiel rolls his eyes at Dean before pushing away from the table and walking into the kitchen. "Are you that against eating something healthy that you can't appreciate it when something is delicious?"

"Oh fer… you're just like Sammy, aren't you? You gonna start ribbing me about eating better now, too?"

"If I think you need to take better care of yourself, which I _do_ , then yes, I will start ribbing you," Castiel replies loftily. He grabs a plastic bowl of fruit from the fridge and sits back down at the table, eyeing Dean carefully. "Speaking of Sam, we haven't really discussed the book," he broaches quietly.

Dean looks at him out of the corner of his eye as he chews. "What about it?"

Castiel leans back in his chair. "Well, for one thing, are you okay with me continuing to write it? I will, of course, still want you to give final approval on it before I allow it to be published."

Dean sets his fork down on his plate as he finishes chewing. "Cas… I trust you, okay? I trust you to not write stuff about me that I don't want made public." He shrugs. "I never stopped trusting you. I was just stupid, and freaked out, and scared before, is all."

Castiel stares at him, a small smile playing across his lips. "I appreciate that, Dean. But I still want you to read it before I send it to Pam. For my own peace of mind, and also because your opinion of it is important to me."

Dean stares back at him, eyes wide. "Yeah. Okay. I will," he says, rubbing the back of his neck as a red tinge creeps up along his face.

"And there's also the question of the proceeds of the book for Sam," Castiel states.

Dean shakes his head vehemently. "No. That's not gonna happen."

"Dean, I—"

"No, Cas, I can't let you do that. It's not right. Sam is my responsibility."

"And all I'm saying is I want to help you with that responsibility. I care about Sam, and I care about you, and I want to help you both—"

"It's not your place, Cas!" Dean snaps, scooting his chair back from the table with a screech of the legs against the hardwood floor. "Can't you see, if you do this, how it would look? It'd look like I just hooked up with you for the money, and dammit, Cas, I can't—"

"Dean, that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Castiel spits out, angry in spite of his determination to explain this rationally to Dean. "I don't care what anyone else thinks, for one, and for two, this book will be just as much yours as it will ever be mine."

Dean's face scrunches up in frustration. "How do you figure that one?"

Castiel sighs, exasperated. "If it weren't for you, this book wouldn't even exist. You inspired this book, you are its muse. As is Sam. The characters… even though they aren't you, their existence was inspired by you. So I owe it to you, and to Sam, to compensate you for it. That's all I'm saying."

Dean walks to the kitchen and leans over the counter, facing Castiel. He lays his head in his hands and stands in silence for several minutes. Castiel watches him, waiting to hear what he's thinking about.

Finally, Dean raises his head and looks at him. "I'm gonna pay you back for it some day."

Castiel shakes his head. "Dean, no, I—"

"That's the only way I'm gonna agree to this, Cas. You gotta let me pay you back."

Castiel sighs, staring up at the ceiling as he rubs a hand across his mouth. "Alright. But there's no set timeframe, and no interest. You pay me a little bit at a time."

"Fine."

"Fine."

They gaze at each other across the countertop, jaws set in determination. Dean breaks away first, looking down to pull something out of a drawer. He returns to the table and places the object in front of Castiel, next to his plate. Castiel looks down at it, amused when he realizes it's an origami bird, made out of notebook paper.

"What is this?" Castiel asks, staring up at Dean.

Dean shrugs. "Open it and find out."

Castiel almost doesn't want to open it and destroy the bird that Dean made, but he does so anyway, eager to discover what's inside. When he pulls the paper apart, he finds scrawled across it:

**_IOU one trip around the world. Expiration date: NONE_ **

He looks up at Dean, confused. "I don't understand…"

A smile plays along Dean's lips as he blushes. "I uh – well, we've talked about how you wish you could someday feel good enough to travel, and see all those places you've got pictures of, and so I thought, you know, I could be your traveling buddy, and help you be well enough to actually go places again… " Dean glances quickly down at Castiel before looking away again. "It's stupid, I know, it's just—"

"No, Dean," Castiel whispers quietly as he reaches out to grasp Dean's hand. "This isn't stupid. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me."

Dean stares at Castiel, green eyes wide and hopeful. "So, do you like it, then? Do you think you'd want to do that someday?"

"Of course, Dean. If I can, there's nothing in this universe I'd want more than to travel the world with you."

Castiel stands up and wraps his arms around Dean, clinging on tightly. "Honestly, five months ago I would have never thought such a thing was possible for me," he murmurs, burying his face against Dean's shoulder. "But you changed me, Dean. You made me want to fight for the strength to get better. So, when I take that trip around the world someday, there's no one else I'd want by my side but you."

Dean holds Castiel close, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling tight. "I want that, too," he whispers against Castiel's ear.

"But I thought you didn't like to fly? Didn't you say you get airsick?" Castiel asks.

Dean laughs into the skin of Castiel's neck. "Yeah, well, I didn't promise I wouldn't puke in all of the vomit bags. I reserve the right to spew chunks often and in varying amounts on every flight."

Snorting, Castiel pulls away and sits back down in his seat, smiling as he watches Dean do the same. "I'll even bring extra bags, just in case."

Dean rolls his eyes as he picks up his fork and begins shoveling food in his mouth again. They both eat in silence for a while, Dean leaning over every few bites to give a scrap to Zeppy, and Castiel chiding him for teaching her bad manners. As Castiel munches on a piece of fruit, he notices Dean deep in thought as he drinks his mug of coffee.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" he asks.

Dean glances over at him, lifting a shoulder in a shrug as he responds. "I was just thinking, I might like to try for paramedic school after all, someday. Maybe work long enough at the club to save up some money to get me through my first year, at least."

Castiel smiles and nods his head in approval. "I think that's a great idea."

"And I just – well, between that and working at the garage, and Sam going off to school in a couple years… and all the writing you're always doing… I don't know how everything's going to work out," Dean goes on, a look of uncertainty on his face.

For once, Castiel can't seem to care that there's no plan set in stone for them, no step-by-step guidelines for them to follow. For the first time, the thought of not knowing what comes next excites him instead of instilling fear.

He smiles at Dean across the table, reaching over to take his hand in his as he says, "We'll make it up as we go."

***************************


	13. Epilogue

_Eighteen months later_

Dean hums to himself as he rinses shampoo out of his hair, reveling in the feel of the beating of the water, just this side of painful. He may have teased Castiel long ago about his fancy humongous shower with more showerheads than can be counted on one hand, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't look forward to jumping in here every day, luxuriating in the feel of the thick streams of water pounding out all the knots in his muscles.

Standing under the highest of the showerheads, he smiles to himself as he recalls their anniversary dinner the night before. They'd argued on and off for months about what date exactly to celebrate as their 'anniversary,' so after much debate they'd agreed to just celebrate _everything_. The first night they'd met, the first time Dean crawled into Castiel's lap for a dance, the first time Dean visited Castiel's apartment (which of course, was an additional celebration of when Castiel first met Sam and the day they found Zeppy, though Dean drew the line at wearing the party favors Castiel bought for them, choosing instead to laugh and take pictures of Zeppy looking very forlorn in her hat), their first kiss, the night Castiel saved Dean's life and the first time they fucked, and all the other little _firsts_ they've experienced together so far. 

It's been practically a year-long celebration, the happiest year of Dean's life to date, culminating in last night's anniversary of the day Dean moved in with Castiel. But it hasn't been a perfect year, by any means. They still fight more often than either of them would like, both so stubborn and headstrong, not used to sharing themselves so completely with another person. Both of them are still terrified of losing each other as well as themselves, which leads to arguments about stupid, petty shit, like what to eat for dinner and Dean leaving his wet towels all over the bedroom floor. 

Other arguments are more painful, though, and cut them both so deeply and profoundly that they keep away from each other for days afterwards. The disagreements may appear to be about different things, but their roots are always the same" the fear of opening themselves up to each other, terrified of being hurt or disappointed, or worse, being the one to hurt or disappoint. 

One of the worst arguments they've had in the past was about Dean's job situation. Castiel had nagged Dean for weeks and months after he'd moved into the apartment about quitting all of his jobs but the one at the garage. Dean had hated the thought of giving up that extra income, even though he was saving a shitload of money already by moving in with Castiel. He'd forced Cas to let him help pay the monthly bills, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that he was just Castiel's _kept boy_. 

Breathing in the steam from the hot water, Dean can still remember the panic he'd felt when Castiel first approached him about giving up the stripping and lawn care jobs to make time for college and paramedic training. Dean's first instinct was to assume the worst. "You're ashamed of me!" he'd yelled, backing away.

Castiel had scoffed, "Of course I'm not ashamed of you, Dean! I just want to help you achieve your dream. You _want_ this, you told me so, remember?"

"Don't you fucking tell me what I want," Dean had retorted bitterly. "You don't know me. And don't try to tell me what to do, either. This is none of your business!"

Idiot that he is, he'd stormed out, feeling cornered, and pressured, and terrified that Castiel was right – that now really was the moment he'd always dreamed of, the right time to finally go and try to be the person he always wanted to be. After a week of sulking and freaking the fuck out, all while Castiel silently watched him and rolled his eyes, Dean had turned in his notice at both jobs. A month later, he was enrolled for the next term at the local community college. It'd taken even longer to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off Castiel's face, but it sure as hell was fun in the doing.

Dean grimaces as he recalls another particularly nasty fight about six months ago. The money had started rolling in on the book Castiel had written in honor of Dean, and he'd asked Dean, once again, if he'd just accept the money without insisting on paying it back. Dean, frustrated that Castiel just would not let this go, had snapped.

"Cas, give it the fuck up, okay? Sam is my family, he's _my_ responsibility, not yours!" Dean had thrown the book he was reading across the room in aggravation before sparing a glance at Castiel, and the look on Cas's face would haunt him for many months.

Eyes wide and glassy and face drained of all color, Castiel had whispered, "My mistake. I thought you and Sam _were_ my family now."

That moment, more than any other, is what made Dean realize that Castiel sees him not just as a _boyfriend_ or partner or _whatthefuckever_. For Castiel, Dean and Sam are the family he had always longed for but never thought he could have.

Dean spent many weeks after that doing what he could to make it up to Castiel, as well as trying his best to show him that he _is_ their family. It took a while, but Castiel finally seemed to start to trust Dean again, and Dean swore to himself that he would do his damnedest to never fuck things up that badly again. With his own issues warring against him, it hasn't been easy for Dean to open up and let someone else into his close circle of family, but after everything that Castiel has done and continues to do for Dean and for his brother, he owes it to the man to give him his trust and his love as freely as he can.

But as they discovered just a couple months ago, turns out the money for Sam's college was a non-issue. He got word from Stanford that he was being offered a full scholarship, alongside his too-smart-for-her-own-good girlfriend, Jess. The celebratory dinner over Sam's news was the happiest moment of Dean's life, sitting between his nerdy gigantor brother and his nerdy hot-ass boyfriend. The night-long perma-grin on his face left his cheeks aching for days.

Dean braces his hands along one wall of the shower as he allows the beating water to massage his back. He can smell the tantalizing scent of cooking bacon wafting through the air vents, and wonders why Castiel is cooking bacon when he hates something so heavy early in the mornings. Fruit for breakfast is one thing that Dean has conceded on, mostly because he grudgingly admits that he does actually feel better when he eats something fresh instead of laden with grease and fat first thing in the morning. Doesn't mean he doesn't still miss an artery-clogging breakfast every now and then, which is why his stomach rumbles and his mouth waters at the smell of sizzling bacon.

As he rushes to shave his stubble so he can feast on food and Cas, he recalls how the past year and a half has definitely had more ups than downs, filled with many firsts for the both of them. He chuckles, hissing as he nicks his chin with the razor, thinking about their first vacation together. In retrospect, they both had been way too optimistic in their abilities to navigate public places and to allow a metal cylinder with wings to hurtle Dean through the air.

Between Castiel locking himself in the tiny airplane bathroom to get away from all the _humanity_ , and Dean hyperventilating and vomiting everything he'd eaten in the previous six months, it's a wonder that the airline didn't banish them from flying with it indefinitely.

They opted to rent a car and drive back from the Grand Canyon instead of flying, and their trek home was much more relaxing and vomit-free, thank God.

Their second vacation had been pretty much heaven on wheels. The Impala's wheels, to be exact. Dean had finally relented, and allowed Bobby to help him restore the Impala to all her previous glory. What with finding and ordering the parts, and carving out the time here and there between paying work at the garage, it had taken several months to complete. But once she was finally done, Dean couldn't wait to take her out on the open road with Castiel sitting by his side. 

It had been difficult to face the emotions wrapped up in what the Impala represented to Dean--a lost childhood, loss of their father long before his death, memories of a security and happiness it'd taken Dean almost twenty years to find again--but in the end, it was worth it. Dean will never forget the feeling of getting his baby out on the highway, windows rolled down and Zeppelin blaring from the tape deck, the rising sun behind them and nothing but a long stretch of asphalt before them. He had reached across the seat, slid his hand up Castiel's knee and along his thigh, and let it rest there: a promise for later. Castiel had laid his arm along the back of the seat, fingers tangling and playing distractedly with the hair along the nape of Dean's neck, as he stared out the passenger window, a ghost of a smile across his lips as they sped down countless miles of road.

They'd rented a cabin in the remotest part of the Rockies they could find, and whiled away the hours with Dean teaching Cas how to fish, as well as with hiking, skinny-dipping, and fucking so much and so enthusiastically that they both were sore for weeks.

Dean languidly strokes his dick, remembering one particularly scrumptious blowjob that Castiel had graced him with alongside a creek near their cabin. Cas had taken to walking around naked surprisingly fast. Dean had mused, "Hey Cas, do you believe in past lives? I bet you were a hippie in a past life, since you love walking around naked so much."

"I bet you were an asshole in a previous life, since you love being one so often," Cas had retorted. The wrestling match and sex after that particular insult made Dean grateful Cas has such a smartass sense of humor.

That vacation had done wonders for the both of them. It had given Castiel the opportunity to see that he could not only function in an uncontrolled environment without any routines or plans or schedules, but _flourish_. And for Dean… well, it showed him that not only did he deserve to find happiness and hold onto it, but that he already was happy, and every bit of the happiness he had, he deserved.

He'd struggled so hard for so long to keep his head above water, not knowing what he was holding on for or why he even bothered. But now he knows. He was holding on so that he could find his way here, into the arms of a sexy-as-fuck weirdo with stupid blue eyes and a heart bigger than the world around him.

Dean rinses the shaving cream off his face and turns the water off. Grabbing a towel, he steps carefully across the slick floor and into their bedroom, pausing when he notices a book lying on the bed that wasn't there when he'd stepped into the bathroom. The cover of the book shows a painting in dark colors of a hand bursting through the dirt of a freshly-made grave, and the title across the top reads _Lazarus Rising_.

There's a slip of paper bookmarking a page towards the beginning of the book, and when Dean opens to that page he finds the dedication.

****

  
**_For Dean, my favorite human. He gave me breath, repaired my wings, and taught me to fly_**.

Dean allows his fingers to trace a path along the words, whisper-soft. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying in vain to hold back the tears. _If Sammy could see me now, he would so be laughing it up_ , he thinks. Leave it to Dean to fall in love with the one person in all of the world besides Sam who could make him cry with just a few simple words.

He places the book on his nightstand and shuffles his way out of the bedroom and down the hall. The smell of bacon and scrambled eggs lures him toward the kitchen, where he finds Zeppy watching attentively as Castiel, shirtless and wearing loose pajama bottoms that are barely hanging onto the smooth swell of his ass, stirs a bowl of pancake batter, head bobbing to the beat of a Zeppelin song playing on Dean's stereo in the den. 

Castiel's back is turned towards Dean, giving Dean the perfect opportunity to sneak up behind him and wrap long arms around the man's waist. Cas stills when he feels Dean slide against him, leaning his head back against Dean's shoulder as Dean nuzzles behind his ear. Dean slides a hand up Castiel's chest, idly playing with a nipple, as the other hand wraps around his hip, fingers slipping just under the waistband of his pajamas and teasing at the trail of hair leading to his cock.

"What's with the fancy breakfast?" Dean teases, breath wet against the curve of Castiel's ear.

Castiel lets loose a shaky sigh. "It's our anniversary breakfast," he replies, voice hoarse.

Chuckling, Dean murmurs, "So we get anniversary dinner last night, anniversary breakfast this morning… what's next? Anniversary snacks? Anniversary _cock_ tails?" He rubs his half-hard dick along the crease of Castiel's ass at the word 'cock,' garnering a soft laugh from Cas.

"I figure a week-long celebration is in order for the anniversary of when you finally stopped freaking the fuck out and moved in with me, yes," Castiel retorts, clever hand sneaking back and squeezing Dean's ass, pulling him closer.

"Ha-ha, you think you're so funny, dontcha?" Dean whispers, licking his way from Castiel's ear to the back of his neck, biting at the knob of the top of his spine. Castiel shudders against him, moaning as Dean's fingers dive further under his pajamas, wrapping loosely around the base of his shaft.

"I think I'm adorable," Castiel says, matter-of-factly.

Dean can't help a bark of laughter at that unexpected response, retrieving his hand and tugging Castiel around to face him. "Okay, I'll give you that. You really are fucking adorable," he grins, leaning forward to cover Castiel's mouth with his own.

Before the kiss can become too distracting, Dean pulls away, leaning his brow against Castiel's and staring at him. He'll never get over how much Castiel likes to just _look_ at him, nor the intensity with which he does it. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't addicted to it, and didn't love to give as good as he gets.

Castiel's fingers slide through Dean's wet hair, massaging his scalp. They stand there, foreheads pressed together, exchanging breath and staring into each other's eyes for what feels like days before Dean whispers, "We're not just celebrating my moving in though, are we? I think we should celebrate your next Angel Warriors book finally getting printed."

Castiel blushes slightly and smiles. "You saw it?"

Dean leans forward to press a chaste kiss on Castiel's lips before answering. "I did. That cover is creepy and badass, man."

Nodding slightly, Castiel agrees. "I'm really pleased with how it turned out. Should be sufficient to make new readers curious enough to buy it, I hope."

Dean brings a hand up along Castiel's side, fingers tracing softly along the delicate, sensitive skin, eliciting goosebumps along the way. "I saw the dedication, too."

Castiel's eyes go wide, tongue peeking out of his mouth to wet his top lip nervously. "What did you think of it?"

With a quiet sigh, Dean leans forward, slotting his mouth against Castiel's, marveling, as always, at how the man never hesitates to open up to him, marveling at how this spot, this mouth, this body, this place, and this life are more of a home to him than he ever thought possible, than he ever thought he could be worthy enough to deserve.

"I think it's good that I'm your favorite human," he pulls back long enough to whisper against Castiel's lips, "because you're my favorite angel...with a badass right hook."

Castiel's huff of laughter is swallowed by Dean's kisses, and all intentions for an anniversary breakfast are forgotten for a while.

_The End_


End file.
